292i 


Unconventional 
Joan 


Old  acquaintances,  whom  you  will  recognize 
when  you  meet  them,  herein  provide  the 
themes,  atmosphere  and  action  of  a  can- 
didly daring  effort  to  please  and  help  you 


BUNGALOW  BOOK  COMPANY 

CHICAGO  ILLINOIS 


"UNCONVENTIONAL  JOAN" 
Copyrighted  1922 

All  Rights   Reserved,   including  that  of  translation 
into  foreign  languages,  including  the  Scandinavian. 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

BUNGALOW  BOOK  COMPANY 


To  Her 


2138674   ' 


Unconventional  Joan 


CHAPTER   I 
i 

A  T  the  corner. 

•**•       "Extra!     Evening  News.   'War  Miseries  Mul- 
tiply!'" 

The  crier  and  courier  for  that  influential  publication 
dashed  towards  two  men  meeting  at  the  corner  of  News- 
paper Row,  at  six  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  November 
6th,  1918. 

"Extra !  Evening  Record.  'War  Failures  Increase !' ' 

Raggedy  herald  number  two  trumpeted  a  shrill  chal- 
lenge for  the  competing  newspaper  dynasty. 

Collision  and  conflict  between  the  two  enterprising 
contestants  were  wasted.  Both  barefooted  envoys  tri- 
umphed. Two  papers  apiece  were  thrust  into  the  hands 
of  their  unknown  chiefs,  the  editors  respectively  of  the 
Morning  News  and  Morning  Record,  who  were  on  their 
way  to  their  night's  work. 

As  these  two  modern  Caesars  lingered  at  the  corner 
to  exchange  jibes  about  the  amusingly  imitative  headlines 
of  their  rival  papers — atrociously  depressing  headlines — 
their  citizen-subjects  crowded  by  to  their  homes — away 
from  their  floundering  struggles  with  the  "Press-pro- 
moted proceedings  of  the  day." 

7 


8  Unconventional  Joan 

"Press-promoted  and  polluted  proceedings  of  the 
day,"  Professor  Lawrence  Trueby,  at  the  college,  had 
cynically  put  it,  in  his  pungent  passion  for  alliteration. 

Disconnected  fragments  of  the  conversations  of  their 
dependants  reached  the  ears  of  the  two  newspaper  poten- 
tates, always  on  the  alert. 

"...  and  that  preacher  calls  this  civilization  .  .  . 
"...  further  coal  and  sugar  restrictions  .  .  .  ' 
"...  tired  and  want  to  get  out  of  this  .  .  .  ' 
"...  couldn't  believe  a  thing  his  wife  said  .  .  .  ' 
"...  shot  him  in  the  stomach  .  .  .  ' 
"...  divorced  her  second  husband  and  .  .  .  ' 
"...  cheapest  silk  stockings  .  .  .  ' 
"...  kissed  her  at  the  movies  .  .  .  ' 
"...  drafted  ..." 

"...  phone  keeps  tinkling  and  nobody  answers  ..." 
"...  wireless  propaganda  from  the  enemy  .  .  .  ' 
"...  electricity  making  wars  shorter  maybe  .  .  .  ' 
Depressing  headline  chit-chat,  most  of  it,  superficially 
gleaned  from  quickly  snatched  newspapers,  or,  as  in  the 
last  instance,  casually  inspired  by  things  as  commonplace 
as  the  grotesquely  vulgar  electric  signs,  which  eccentric 
Professor  Trueby  elaborately  described  in  his  curious 
sociological  thesis,  as  "vividly  radiating  their  lurid  en- 
ticements to  the  impoverished  brains  of  a  purblind  peo- 
ple, harnessed  and  blinkered  by  conventional  capitula- 
tion to  the  driving  domination  of  propaganda." 

Seen  through  the  Professor's  spectacles,  whistling 
boys  cut  zigzag  through  the  traffic,  "brazenly  battering" 
everybody  as  they  went,  and  their  elders  gave  them  room. 
Vacant-faced  girls  "prattled  pathetically"  about  their 
"evening  expectations."  Faded  women  artfully  con- 


Unconventional  Joan  9 

cealed  unbearable  fatigue  beneath  "perfect  pose."  Nerv- 
ous business  men,  set  free  after  their  day's  work,  "dil- 
igently dirtied"  the  much  used  air  with  "cloudy  mixtures 
of  carbon  monoxide"  and  tobacco  fumes,  while  they 
"contentedly  crammed"  their  newspaper  wads  of  en- 
lightenment into  their  pockets,  and  strenuously  fought 
their  way  forward  to  seats  in  the  cars. 

Civilization ! 

For  a  fraction  of  a  minute  the  stampede  halted  and 
swerved  in  its  course  to  make  a  small  space  on  the  pave- 
ment for  a  man  to  have  a  fit.  Those  who  had  never  seen 
a  fit  paused  briefly  to  satisfy  their  morbid  curiosity,  and 
then  hurried  along,  taking  their  sympathy  with  them  for 
personal  use. 

Mr.  Glitter  flashed  past  in  a  nobby  suit,  dead  broke, 
looking  for  a  life-saver.  Miss  Coy  flitted  demurely  by 
in  pursuit  of  an  extra  dash  of  talcum  on  the  tip  of  her 
nose.  Alderman  Blunt  trundled  his  oppressive  impor- 
tance through  the  throng  with  the  airs  of  an  owner  of  the 
earth.  Miss  Nondescript,  fully  aware  of  the  young  strip- 
ling slinking  behind  her,  kept  just  far  enough  ahead  of 
him  to  lead  him  on.  Johnny  Pepp  punctuated  his  alter- 
nate steps  with  expectorations  of  contempt  for  the  boss 
who  had  just  discharged  him  for  kissing  a  stenographer. 
Widow  Cross,  of  the  wrinkled  stockings,  not  relishing 
being  spat  at,  poked  Johnny  into  the  gutter.  Another  per- 
fect lady  poked  the  poker  off  the  pavement  after  Johnny. 
A  skidding  motor  car  snorted  angrily  at  being  slowed  up 
by  such  plebeian  obstructions,  and,  a  moment  later,  the 
rushing  torrent  of  gurgling  humanity  sucked  Johnny  and 
the  widow  back  to  the  pavement,  and  then  down,  as  in  a 
•whirlpool,  through  a  hole  in  the  ground  to  a  glorified 


IO  Unconventional  Joan 

sewer,  where  everybody  took  copious  inhalations  of  the 
aromatic  subterranean  atmosphere,  and  eventually  set- 
tled upon  one  another's  feet  in  the  trains. 
Civilization ! 

ii 

For  a  quarter  of  a  century  there  had  been  this  daily 
rush  scene  at  this  hour.  Newspaper  Row,  one  square 
long,  boasted,  among  other  things,  that  it  was  the  centre 
of  the  city's  congestion.  But  the  famous  square  was  also 
the  centre  of  the  city's  influence,  as  had  been  ordained 
from  the  very  beginning.  That  was  when,  as  a  dusty 
roadway,  it  had  been  christened  "Church  Street,"  after 
Trinity  Church,  which  presided  over  the  short  length  of 
the  thoroughfare  from  its  position  on  intersecting  North 
Street. 

Eventually  the  city  government  erected  a  City  Hall 
adjoining  the  Church,  and  for  that  period  during  which 
government  may  be  said  to  have  been  anchored  on  re- 
ligion, Church  Street  maintained  its  given  name;  but 
when  the  centre  of  the  city's  influence  moved  out  of  the 
Church  into  the  City  Hall  next  door,  the  politicians  op- 
portunely expended  a  liberal  bond  issue  for  a  park  in  the 
middle  of  the  thoroughfare,  and  Church  Street  there- 
upon assumed  its  first  alias  of  "Government  Place." 

Thereafter,  merchants  who  had  previously  made  hon- 
est livings  on  the  dusty  street  vouched  for  by  the  name 
of  the  Church,  boldly  broadened  their  policies  and  cor- 
respondingly enhanced  their  profits  by  dispensing  a  more 
dignified  brand  of  service  commensurate  with  the  ex- 
clusiveness  of  the  parkway  newly  known  as  "Government 
Place/' 


Unconventional  Joan  II 

The  latest  change  in  the  name  of  the  street  was  an  in- 
novation simultaneous  with  the  prodigious  prosperity  of 
the  city's  two  newspapers,  the  News,  and  the  Record. 

The  home  of  the  Morning  and  Evening  News  had 
rapidly  grown  to  be  a  palatial  building  on  the  east  side  of 
Government  Place,  in  the  middle  of  the  square.  The 
home  of  the  Morning  and  Evening  Record  had  become 
an  almost  equally  pretentious  establishment  on  the  west 
side  of  Government  Place,  likewise  in  the  middle  of  the 
square,  and  directly  facing  its  competitor,  the  News. 

"From  the  two  facing  sets  of  windows,"  wrote  the  in- 
dignant Professor  in  his  famous  thesis,  "the  gigantic 
printing  presses  of  these  two  autocracies,  like  bristling 
teeth  in  the  jaws  of  leviathans,  snapped  savagely  across 
at  each  other,  morning  and  evening,  and  bit  off  big 
mouthfuls  of  paper,  desecrated  and  slimy,  which  they 
spat  forth  into  receptacles  of  a  type  aptly  called,  after  its 
contents,  'news  truck,'  dozens  of  which  tore  madly 
through  the  streets  to  numerous  dumping  places,  whence 
individual  helpings  of  the  filthy  stuff  could  be  most  ad- 
vantageously dished  up  to  the  citizens  with  their  morn- 
ing saucer  of  porridge  or  their  evening  bowl  of  soup." 

In  remarkably  short  time,  the  two  principalities  de- 
cided and  decreed  that  the  beautiful  park  in  the  middle  of 
the  street  was  in  the  way  of  their  regal  dump-carts,  and 
it  figured  ludicrously  in  cartoons  which  lampooned  the 
impracticability  of  planting  flowers  on  a  railroad  track. 
Finally  it  slipped  quietly  and  completely  out  of  the  pic- 
ture, the  centrepiece  of  which  became  a  double  row  of 
rubber-shod  locomotives  manned  by  blustering  bullies. 
That  was  when  the  centre  of  the  city's  influence,  pri- 
marily located  in  the  Church,  and  afterwards  in  the  City 


12  Unconventional  Joan 

Hall,  had  been  moved  half-way  down  the  square  to  the 
newspaper  offices,  and  the  name  of  "Government  Place" 
automatically  became  "Newspaper  Row." 

Bearing  upon  this  periodic  shifting  of  the  heart  of  the 
metropolis,  a  certain  sudden  consequence  of  the  war- 
strain  that  nightly  drove  so  many  stay-at-homes  to  the 
cinema-shows  for  distraction,  was  the  overnight  growth 
of  'Togo's  Picture  Palace"  at  the  southern  extremity  of 
Newspaper  Row,  on  South  Street,  facing  up  the  square 
towards  the  Church,  as  if  bidding  defiance,  with  its 
shockingly  indecent  advertisements,  to  the  Reverend 
Matthew  Holden's  dwindling  powers  of  persuasion,  and 
ambitiously  competing  with  the  two  newspapers  for  the 
record  in  quality  as  well  as  quantity  of  influence  exerted 
upon  the  local  savages. 

Ill 

Although  none  of  those  who  surged  past  the  two  edi- 
tors, not  even  their  own  newsboys,  knew  them,  there 
were  many  in  the  moving  throng  known  more  intimately 
than  they  perhaps  realized  by  the  newspaper  men,  whose 
prerogative  it  was  both  to  know  and  to  make  known. 
The  citizens'  secrets  always  yielded  easily  to  their  en- 
quiries. Only  their  own  competitive  secrets  and  plans 
tantalizingly  taxed  the  upper  reaches  of  their  inquisitive- 
ness,  and  it  was  really  more  because  they  were  shrewd 
rivals  than  because  they  were  friends,  that  the  two  editors 
met  nightly  for  a  few  minutes  on  their  way  to  their  privi- 
leged function  of  preparing  for  the  sleeping  city  its  morn- 
ing assortment  of  influences. 

Thomas  Manly,  the  younger  of  the  two  men,  likable 
in  manner  as  well  as  in  appearance,  had  spectacularly 


Unconventional  Joan  13 

graduated  into  high  newspaper  circles  direct  from  col- 
lege, as  the  son  of  one  of  the  proprietors  and  a  former 
editor  of  the  News,  but  his  specialized  education,  inti- 
mate relations  with  his  father,  and  a  half-year's  gruelling 
experience,  had  seemingly  equipped  him  for  the  editorial 
duties  to  which  he  was  enthusiastically  devoted  with  all 
the  fervour  of  his  young  manhood.  His  friends  called 
him  a  "prodigy."  His  competitor  enviously  called  him 
an  "effigy." 

Wilfrid  Keating,  the  competitor,  older  than  Manly 
by  fifteen  years,  owner  of  striking  blue  eyes  that  pierced 
you  pleasantly  but  probingly,  once  sarcastically  confided 
to  his  assistant  that  he,  too,  "like  Manly,  of  the  Neivs, 
had  passed  from  one  educational  institution  to  another 
when  he  became  editor  of  the  Record,  meaning  the 
"School  of  Hard  Knocks."  To  him  all  college  products 
were  prodigies  of  impudent  pretence  whom  he  persist- 
ently discounted  by  exaggerating  their  escapades  in  his 
columns,  as  if  they  were  competitors.  Thus  he  abetted 
the  students'  tendency  to  synonymize  "college"  with 
"comedy." 

Manly's  stylish  hat,  chamois  gloves,  smart  walking 
stick,  and  well-cut  suit  evidenced  his  punctilious  approval 
of  the  conventional  proprieties  as  promoted  by  his  paper. 
Keating  was  similarly  groomed  to  an  exquisite  finish, 
along  somewhat  more  mature  lines.  Observers  of  the 
two  men,  as  they  purchased  their  papers,  might  have 
noted  that  both  of  them  correctly  mirrored  the  styles 
which  their  newspapers  were  paid  to  advertise  as  sanc- 
tioned by  the  arbiters  of  fashion. 

As  they  stood  there,  their  papers  were  accommodat- 
ingly illuminated  by  Pogo's  powerful  electric  sign  above 


14  Unconventional  Joan 

his  Picture  Palace,  which  suddenly  lit  up  the  square, 
tempting  the  retreating  army  of  workers  to  tarry. 

'Togo  just  lives  on  that  electric  juice  of  his,  eh 
Manly?"  ventured  Keating,  by  way  of  a  greeting,  and 
with  the  characteristic  interrogation  of  the  journalist. 

"We  depend  on  it,  too,  don't  you  think?"  responded 
Manly,  similarly  questioning  and  fencing. 

"How's  that?"  enquired  the  directing  brain  of  the 
Record,  wondering  how  a  newspaper  could  possibly  be 
accused  of  depending  upon  anything  outside  itself. 

"Well,  I  suppose  electricity  is  the  nearest  thing  to  day- 
light that  you  and  I  enjoy,"  defensively  parried  Manly, 
thinking  of  the  crowds  going  home,  and  pitying  himself 
on  the  way  to  a  night  of  arduous  work. 

"That's  a  fact,  Manly.  And,  come  to  think  of  it,  the 
current  is  more  than  merely  daylight  to  us.  Why,  it's 
actually  our  breath.  We  really  live  on  it  more  than  old 
Pogodoes!  Do  you  realize  that?" 

Keating  could  not  have  been  the  well  trained  news- 
gatherer  that  he  was  had  he  not  sprinkled  his  conversa- 
tion generously  with  question  marks. 

"How  so?"  Manly  put  the  question  mechanically,  ab- 
stractedly following  with  his  eyes  an  interesting  couple 
emerging  from  the  doorway  of  the  loft  adjoining  the 
Record  building. 

"Why,  if  you  take  away  -the  telegraph  you  kill  the 
Press." 

"Good  evening,  Joan,  Hello  Jerry!"  interrupted 
Manly,  bowing  to  the  solemn  young  man  with  somewhat 
unfashionable  clothes,  and  his  trim  little  girl  companion, 
who  had  crossed  over  from  the  loft  building  and  passed 
the  two  editors. 


Unconventional  Joan  15 

"Ah!  the  two  J's,"  facetiously  observed  Keating,  sur- 
veying the  couple  with  his  penetrating  blue  eyes,  and 
assuming  that  Manly  recognized  the  obvious  disparity 
manifested  between  the  serious  smile  of  the  man  and  the 
vivacious  twinkle  in  the  eyes  of  the  girl. 

"Jays  chatter,  Keating,  but  those  birds  hum,"  icily 
retorted  Manly,  in  sarcastically  selected  vernacular,  ver- 
bally identifying  the  odd  pair  with  their  buzzing  electrical 
experiments  in  the  loft  building,  and  purposely  substi- 
tuting an  insinuating  synonym  for  Keating's  disparaging 
epithet.  His  tone,  as  well  as  his  eyes  that  followed  the 
couple,  disclosed  that  either  one  or  both  commanded 
something  deeper  than  his  mere  respect. 

The  man,  Jerry  Englin,  who  had  passed  with  the  girl, 
was  tall  by  contrast  with  her.  Nearly  everyone  in  the  city 
knew  of  him,  and  admiringly  called  him  "Electrical 
Englin,"  as  he  had  been  alliteratively  christened  by  the 
eccentric  Professor  on  account  of  the  wonderful  electrical 
work  which  had  been  his  effort  towards  winning  the  war. 

The  girl,  Joan  Avery,  was  just  what  Tom  Manly  had 
aptly  described  her  to  be  when  he  and  Englin  and  Joan 
were  at  college  together — "a  dear  little  figure,  and  so 
extraordinarily  beautiful  that  the  sweetness  reflected  in 
her  face  actually  awes  men  before  it  captivates  them." 
To  which  Jerry  had  feelingly  replied  at  the  time,  "That's 
right,  Tom." 

Keating  accepted  Manly's  retort  like  a  man  who  has 
received  a  dipperful  of  cold  water  in  the  face,  but,  with 
his  usual  self-control,  he  replied: 

"No  offence  intended,  Manly,  but  isn't  it  rather  odd 
and  interesting,  you  know — this  affinity  business  of  theirs 
up  there  in  the  attic  next  door  to  our  building?" 


16  Unconventional  Joan 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,  Keating,"  quickly  answered 
Manly,  reacting  spiritedly  to  the  older  man's  spur-like 
jab  and  apparently  being  forced  to  yield  to  the  studied 
inquisition  of  his  competitor.  "I  am  glad  to  be  able  to 
correct  your  wrong  impression.  She  is  merely  a  very 
good  friend  of  Englin's,  a  sort  of  business  associate, 
'silent  partner'  so  to  speak — 'part  of  his  brain,'  he  calls 
her — used  to  work  with  him  on  electrical  stuff  when  the 
three  of  us  were  at  college  together — works  with  him  in 
the  same  old  way  up  there  in  their  laboratory  next  door 
to  your  building.  Englin  never  sees  her  outside  of  busi- 
ness hours.  But  he  gives  her  credit  for  a  lot  of  detail 
work  in  connection  with  his  electrical  inventions.  Says 
she  can  jump  at  conclusions  instinctively  quicker  than  he 
can  reason  them  out.  Compares  her  intuition  with  wire- 
less transmissions,  and  all  that — " 

"Yes,  but  'all  that,'  and  particularly  sticking  to  a  genius 
isn't  ordinary,  you  know  ?  Now  is  it  ?  Normal  women, 
and  the  pretty  ones  especially,  don't  do  that  sort  of  thing. 
They  usually  pick  out  someone  who  feels  instead  of  mere- 
ly thinks,  and  someone  who  feels  for  them,  instead  of 
thinking  all  the  time  about  helping  other  people.  It's 
unconventional,  Manly,  and  you  know  it." 

Mentally  Manly  did  not  deny  that  Keating  was  right, 
but  he  replied: 

"It  isn't  unconventional  in  the  sense  that  you  suggest, 
Keating,  not  in  the  sense  that  there  is  any  newspaper 
story  in  it.  It  is  novel,  but  it  is  not  news.  I  can  see  your 
drift.  Leave  them  alone.  The  girl  is  all  right,  and  the 
man  is  a  worker,  particularly  valuable  to  the  country 
under  present  war  conditions,  and  actually  engaged,  to 
my  certain  knowledge,  in  perfecting  an  invention  which 


Unconventional  Joan  17 

ought  to  help  you  and  me,  seeing  that,  as  Englin  says,  it 
will  'multiply  the  power  of  the  Press.'  ' 

"  'Multiply  the  power  of  the  Press !'  Indeed  ?  Well, 
now  then,  that's  something  Englin  ought  to  be  willing  to 
tell  us  newspaper  men  all  about,"  suggested  the  editor  of 
the  Record,  as  he  headed  for  his  office. 

"He  has  never  explained  it  to  me,  an  old  friend,  Keat- 
ing, so  I  fancy  he  isn't  going  to  gush  it  all  out  to  you." 

The  rivals  separated,  individually  satisfied  with  their 
fencing  bout;  the  older  one  thinking  he  had  cutely  dis- 
covered, the  younger  one  believing  he  had  artfully  pro- 
voked the  making  of  a  newspaper  story  for  the  Record. 
After  the  fashion  of  their  highly  sophisticated  type,  the 
words  uttered  by  their  lips  had  served  but  to  conceal  their 
thoughts  and  the  motives  in  their  hearts.  Succeeding 
events  were  to  disclose  both. 

"Two  weeks!"  ejaculated  Tom  Manly,  fifteen  days 
later.  "Two  weeks!  I  have  heard  of  'Three  Weeks/ 
but  two  weeks — two  such  weeks — have  never  been  heard 
of  before!  And  to  think  that  the  inciting  impulse  of  it 
all  should  have  been  so  casually  set  in  motion  by  an 
ordinary  conversation  between  two  unimportant  men  at 
a  common  street  corner !" 

IV 

But  the  foundation  of  it  all  extended  farther  back  than 
Tom  Manly's  conversation  at  the  corner — back  to  the 
pretty  English  tea-shop  adjoining  the  campus  of  an 
American  college — back  to  the  interesting  college  char- 
acters who  frequented  the  shop  and  made  it  famous  — 
back  to  the  tea-shop's  happy  scenes — and  to  Joan,  its 
dainty  little  queen. 


jg  Unconventional  Joan 

On  a  day  in  May,  1918,  at  the  end  of  the  college  year 
which  witnessed  the  graduation  of  Jerry  and  Tom,  the 
tidy  tea-shop  took  down  its  sign,  after  a  touching  im- 
promptu farewell  tribute  of  devotion  to  the  fairy  cus- 
todian who  had  presided  over  it  for  a  year  after  the  death 
of  her  charming  English  mother. 

"The  little  mother  of  the  tea-shop,"  Professor  Trueby 
had  christened  her,  "taking  the  place  of  her  mother." 

War,  and  the  departure  of  so  many  of  the  students 
for  the  front,  abruptly  terminated  the  tea-shop's  unique 
career,  and  suspended  Joan's  programme  of  financing  her 
way  through  college  at  the  end  of  her  first  year. 

"Never  mind,  Joan,"  sympathetically  remarked  ag- 
gressive Tom  Manly,  as  he  entered  the  shop  on  the  last 
day.  "It's  going  to  be  all  right." 

The  future  owner  of  one  of  the  city's  great  newspapers 
briskly  crossed  the  room,  admired  and  greeted  by  every- 
one, and  took  his  seat  at  one  of  the  tables  beside  his  chum, 
Jerry  Englin,  whence  he  kept  watching  Joan  as  she  flitted 
around  from  one  group  of  her  friends  to  another,  de- 
lightedly reviewing  in  his  mind  his  plan  of  "making  it 
all  right"  for  Joan,  as  well  as  for  himself,  as  quickly  as 
she  would  permit  during  the  coming  year  of  his  entrance 
upon  the  editorial  career  for  which  he  had  been  studious- 
ly preparing. 

It  was  then  that  he  remarked  to  Jerry: 
"Such  a  dear  little  figure,  and  so  extraordinarily  beau- 
tiful that  the  sweetness  reflected  in  her  face  actually  awes 
men  before  it  captivates  them." 

"That's  right,  Tom,"  soberly  agreed  Jerry. 
Quiet,  deliberate,  meditative  Jerry  Englin. 
Aggressive,  enterprising,  dominating  Tom  Manly. 


Unconventional  Joan  19 

They  both  sat  quietly  happy  for  a  moment  under  the 
influence  of  their  observation  of  her. 

She  was  very  finely  and  delicately  made,  and  the 
simple  blue  linen  frock  with  its  snowy  apron  and  frilled 
cap  seemed  to  enhance  the  extraordinary  grace  of  her 
slim  little  figure.  Her  freshness  and  daintiness  were  al- 
most mystic,  and  her  clear  blue  trustful  eyes  influenced 
people  in  a  very  singular  manner  because  they  seemed  to 
offer  a  sweet  and  frank  confidence. 

"Dream-child,"  murmured  Manly. 

"Prude,"  protested  Girda  Wickley,  overhearing  Tom 
and  reading  his  eyes,  as  she  straddled  into  a  chair  beside 
him  and  Jerry  and  lit  her  cigarette.  "English  prude." 

Joan,  passing  by,  heard  her. 

Jerry  looked  embarrassed. 

Resourceful  Tom  cleverly  replied:  "You  are  amusing, 
Girda." 

It  was  a  cutting  commentary  upon  the  limitations  of 
Girda's  type,  but  she  failed  to  discern  it. 

"I  can't  make  her  out,"  expatiated  Girda.  "She  is  so 
abnormally  different  from  the  average  girl." 

"Average  girl,"  mused  Jerry  to  himself  disparagingly. 
"Once  upon  a  time  merely  to  be  a  girl  was  to  be 
admirable.' 

"There's  another  good  thing  about  you,  Girda,"  con- 
tinued Tom,  amplifying  his  caustic  commentary.  "I  can 
say  what  I  think  about  you  without  putting  my  foot  in 
it."  Which,  candidly  interpreted,  might  have  meant, 
"You  are  the  kind  with  whom  a  fellow  can  take  liberties." 

With  elaborate  unconcern,  Girda  cooed  her  affected 
appreciation  of  what  she  took  to  be  a  compliment,  and 
turned  her  chair  around  to  an  adjoining  table  in  time  to 


20  Unconventional  Joan 

hear  Joan  deprecate  a  political  newspaper  cartoon  lam- 
pooning "The  Slow  English,"  which  had  been  playfully 
presented  to  her  by  stylish  Conrad  Wefers: 

"No,  I  don't  care  about  that."  She  tactfully  brushed 
the  paper  aside.  "What  I  like  in  newspapers  are  helpful 

things." 

"What's  wrong  with  a  harmless  newspaper?"  chal- 
lenged Girda. 

"Nothing,  Girda,  absolutely  nothing  is  wrong  with  a 
harmless  newspaper.  It's  vicious  newspapers,  like  this 
one,  that  are  hurtful."  She  pointed  to  the  copy  of  the 
Record.  "Something  or  other  in  me,  that  I  can't  help, 
resents  it.  It  isn't  just  the  kind  of  influence  that  I  like 
to  have  in  my  shop." 

"She's  right,"  championed  the  bespectacled  professor 
of  sociology  at  the  same  table,  when  Joan  moved  away 
to  bring  an  extra  pot  of  tea.  "College  text-books  stand 
a  poor  enough  chance  against  the  bad  influence  of  the 
best  of  our  newspapers.  The  newspapers  that  are  brought 
into  this  college  are  studied  more  carefully  than  any  of 
the  college  text-books.  They  actually  cancel  the  influ- 
ence of  the  text-books.  The  lives  of  most  of  the  students 
are  smartly  modelled  upon  them,  but  smartness  isn't  bril- 
liance, you  know." 

"Looney  Larry !"  snickered  Girda  to  a  neighbour,  giv- 
ing Lawrence  Trueby  the  popular  nickname  by  which  he 
was  known  to  those  of  the  students  to  whom  he  had  con- 
fided the  importance  of  his  coming  thesis  on  "Conven- 
tionalism and  its  Perpetrators."  "Don't  mind  him.  He 
can't  help  having  his  growl." 

Girda's  alluring  independence  found  a  patronizing 
echo  in  the  co-operative  taunt  of  dapper  Conrad  Wefers, 


Unconventional  Joan  21 

directed,  with  typical  schoolboy  discernment  and  derision, 
against  the  obsession  of  the  learned  doctor. 

"  'Smartness  isn't  brilliance,'  of  course  not ;  but  who 
wants  to  be  brilliant?" 

Girda  tittered. 

Professor  Trueby  glared. 

"Precisely,"  he  retorted,  "precisely.  'Who  wants  to 
be  brilliant  ?'  Those  who  have  the  opportunity  to  become 
educated" — he  squinted  at  grinning  "Conny" — "prefer 
newspaper  instruction,  and  those  who  want  the  oppor- 
tunity to  become  educated" — he  peered  over  his  spec- 
tacles at  Joan  in  the  distance — "can't  get  it.  Conse- 
quently, lack  of  education  is  the  most  common  and  em- 
barrassing thing  in  the  world.  Poverty  prevents  it  and 
newspapers  neutralize  it,"  he  alliteratively  declaimed. 
"Millions  are  spent  by  colleges  to  rationalize  human 
beings,  but  billions  are  used  by  newspapers  to  make 
mimicking  nincompoops  out  of  them." 

In  the  absent-minded  manner  of  the  fanatic,  he  picked 
up  his  folding-chair — "Civilization's  dexterous  contri- 
bution to  the  delightful  art  of  loafing,"  he  contemptu- 
ously called  it — folded  it  up,  carried  it  across  the  room, 
unfolded  it  and  sat  on  it  close  up  to  Conny,  facing  him, 
and  eloquently  launched  forth  into  a  confidential  disser- 
tation, whose  wearisomeness  Conny,  looking  over  his 
shoulder,  began  sardonically  to  telegraph  by  frowns  and 
scowls  to  giggling  Girda,  who  was  hugely  enjoying  his 
discomfiture. 

"It's  this  way,  Mr.  Conrad,  life  is  like  an  ocean,"  ex- 
patiated Professor  Trueby,  "and  it  ought  to  be  quiet  and 
calm,  and  it  would  be  but  for  winds — empty  puffs  of 
gossip  and  propaganda  in  newspapers.  They  stir  up  the 


22  Unconventional  Joan 

surface  of  things — make  troublesome  waves  that  have 
to  be  buffeted  by  us,  passengers  on  the  sea  of  life,  who 
can't  get  where  we  ought  to  go  if  we  go  with  the  winds, 
who  get  off  our  course  and  drive  on  the  rocks  if  we  do 
go  with  the  winds." 

"How  can  you  tell  if  you're  going  with  the  winds?" 
taunted  Conny. 

"You  look  at  the  day's  log,"  rebukingly  retaliated  the 
Professor.  "Here's  what  it  reveals  about  you:  You 
leave  port  in  the  morning,  Mr.  Conny — Conny  being 
short  for  'Convention'  I  suppose — out  you  go,  like  a 
million  of  the  -same  conventional  type — same  rigging, 
same  shape  hat,  same  color,  same  kind  of  cane,  same  kind 
of  gloves  —  you  don't  use  them,  but  you  carry  them 
along  anyhow — same  kind  of  eye-harness,  same  kind  of 
smoke-funnel,  same  rolling  lurch,  meeting  several  hun- 
dred of  the  million  others  lurching  along  just  like  you, 
same  newspaper  chart  under  the  arms  of  all  of  you,  ta"ke 
same  old  route,  same  old  way,  and  do  the  day  all  alike, 
as  much  like  yesterday  and  all  the  other  yesterdays  as 
you  possibly  can — "  He  stopped  abruptly,  scornfully 
scribbled  a  pair  of  quotation  marks  on  the  edge  of  the 
newspaper,  tore  off  the  edge  and  tossed  it  at  Conny  with 
the  crushing  denouncement — 

"That's  your  label — k  means  you're  'copied' — like 
everyone  who  uses  a  newspaper  for  a  chart." 

Conny  had  been  risking  breaking  :his  neck  with  ar- 
tificial nods  in  mock  imitation  of  going  to  sleep  in  the 
professor's  face — to  no  advantage — and  suddenly,  in 
desperation,  emitted  a  stentorian  snore  so  elaborately  at- 
tempted that  it  woke  him  up  in  the  form  of  a  gurgling 
burst  of  laughter,  which  contagiously  communicated  it- 


Unconventional  Joan  23 

self  to  others  in  the  shop.    And  the  lecture  was  suspended. 

Joan  returned  with  the  pot  of  tea. 

"Have  some  tea,  Girda?"  she  proffered,  by  way  of 
conciliation. 

Girda  answered  by  lifting  her  eyebrows.  She  had  be- 
gun to  relieve  her  feelings  with  pencil  and  paper,  in  char- 
acteristic school-girl  fashion.  A  few  minutes  later  she 
turned  back  to  Tom's  table  and  shoved  her  poetic  views 
of  Joan  under  his  nose: 

When  everybody  else  but  you 

begins  to  do 
A  thing  or  two  which  very  few 

Would  reckon  new, 
You  never  will  such  things  condone 

By  look  or  tone, 
And  that  is  why,  forever,  Joan, 

You'll  live  alone. 

Tom  smiled.    He  knew  better ! 

He  also  knew  Joan's  sense  of  humour  sufficiently  well 
to  realize  that  she  would  enjoy  this,  and  got  up  to  show  it 
to  her.  And  besides,  it  provided  him  with  an  opportun- 
ity for  suggestive  denial.  While  she  was  laughing  over 
it  with  him,  a  hastily  written  reply  to  Girda's  effusion 
began  to  follow  a  copy  of  the  first  stanza  circulating 
around  the  room: 

When  everybody  else  but  me 

Has  had  his  tea, 
And  left  the  shop  exceedingly 

Inept  to  see 
That  never  need  a  Queen  bemoan 

Her  envied  throne, 
Adoring,  I  salute  you,  Joan — 

Live  on  alone! 


24  Unconventional  Joan 

"Whose  was  it  ?" 

Everyone  knew  who  had  written  the  attack,  but  who 
had  penned  the  reply?  There  was  an  inescapable  ring  of 
sincerity  in  it  that  aroused  serious  curiosity.  Margaret 
Holden,  delicate  daughter  of  one  of  the  professors,  who 
had  valued  the  refining  influence  of  the  tea-shop  and  was 
honouring  it  on  its  closing  day  by  his  presence,  left  her 
father's  side  and  hastily  took  the  poem  to  Joan,  still 
standing  with  Tom. 

She  read  it,  blushed  crimson,  and  hurried  behind  her 
counter.  Joan  had  the  fair  pink-and-white  English  com- 
plexion which  flushes  so  easily  to  a  deeper  carmine,  and, 
like  all  shy  girls  who  blush  to  find  themselves  conspicu- 
ous, she  resented  bitterly  the  becoming  little  trick  that 
some  of  her  envious  sisters  would  have  given  much  to 
possess. 

Tom  read  the  poem,  paled  perceptibly,  and  anxiously 
scanned  all  the  male  faces  in  the  room. 

"Who  is  the  author  ?"  asked  dandy  Conny  Wef ers. 

"Who  is  he,  Joan?"  coaxed  Margaret. 

"Tell  us,  Joan,"  pleaded  a  chorus  of  voices. 

Joan  came  smiling  from  behind  the  counter. 

"There  isn't  anybody — "  she  began. 

"Of  course  not!"  chirruped  the  chorus. 

Tom  Manly  wondered  if  her  statement  included  him. 
He  scrutinized  her  laughing  face,  bewildered. 

"I  love  all  of  you,"  she  protested,  grateful  for  their 
patronage  and  their  friendship,  "and  I  am  sure  you  all 
love  me — because  you  have  proved  it  so  magnificently." 

It  sounded  like  the  beginning  of  her  valedictory — her 
valedictory  and  her  apology. 

The  chorus  was  hushed.     The  way  she  said  it  made 


Unconventional  Joan  25 

silence  its  only  answer.    Her  face  had  become  very  sober. 

She  sat  down  in  the  midst  of  her  friends,  realizing 
that  it  was  for  the  last  time,  and  began  to  talk  to  them 
like  a  mild  little  mother — so  little  that  she  seemed  to 
have  wandered  in  from  the  nursery. 

So  little  and  so  motherly. 

The  little  mother  of  the  tea-shop — no  more. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  am  going  to  get  along  without 
you,"  she  said  and  quickly  corrected  herself.  "I  didn't 
mean  that,  not  exactly.  I  meant  that  it  is  going  to  be  hard 
not  to  see  you  any  more — but  of  course,  this  is  no  time  to 
be  jealous  of  one's  friends,  is  it? — or  to  be  disagreeing 
with  any  of  them,"  she  looked  penitently  at  Girda — "much 
less  fretting  and  feeling  badly  over  losing  an  old  tea-shop. 
There's  such  a  bigger  feeling — "  She  hesitated. 

She  had  pinned  a  little  British  flag  alongside  of  an 
American  flag  in  the  white  frill  that  encircled  her  beau- 
tiful hair,  and  she  took  them  out  now  and  held  them  in 
her  hands — hands  so  tiny  and  yet  so  capable. 

The  two  little  flags,  held  together,  talked  for  her  and 
said  what  she  meant. 

For  a  moment  she  regarded  them  silently,  then  added, 
again  looking  apologetically  towards  Girda: 

"I  put  it  to  you — I  could  never  tear  some  things  that 
are  English  out  of  my  heart — now,  could  I? — English 
ways  are  so  much  a  part  of  me — they  meant  so  much  to 
my  mother — and  anyhow,  you  wouldn't  expect  me  to, 
would  you?  It  isn't  done,  you  know.  But  I  have  come 
to  love  all  of  you  so  dearly  that  I  don't  know  now  which 
I  love  more,  my  old  friends  at  home  or  my  new  friends 
here — and  anyhow,  we  are  all  one  now." 

They  made  no  comments  nor  interruptions. 


26  Unconventional  Joan 

The  spell  of  listening  seemed  too  pleasing  to  lose. 

But  their  thoughts  were  interesting  comments  upon  her 
mild  manner  of  moving  them. 

"Dream-girl,"  thought  Tom,  again. 

"Bewilderingly  fine,"  thought  Jerry. 

"Gentility,"  thought  Matthew  Holden,  "the  art  of  gen- 
tle words  and  manners." 

"Breeding,"  thought  Professor  Trueby. 

"Angel,"  reverently  thought  Margaret,  watching  her 
father's  eyes,  as  they  in  turn  watched  the  little  speaker. 

"It  is  so  wonderful  for  us  to  be  just  one — one  big 
people — instead  of  two!" 

Joan  was  radiant. 

"Some  newspapers  seem  to  be  always  trying  to  make 
us  quarrel — provoking  us  to  fuss,  as  though  we  were 
little  boys  and  girls  and  could  be  made  to  do  it — always 
reminding  us  about  our  littlenesses — never  trying  to  be 
polite  — and  politeness  is  something,  or  ought  to  be — even 
in  a  newspaper,  don't  you  think?  But  you  don't  find  it  in 
them — 'Those  English/  they  keep  saying  over  here — and 
over  there,  'Those  Americans' — contemptuously,  taunt- 
ingly, temptingly,  it's  childish  behaviour — it  deserves  a 
spanking — it's  mischievous  politics — it's  not  the  kind  of 
influence  I  like  in  my  shop.  That's  all  I  meant,  Girda." 
She  looked  pleadingly  at  her  attacker.  "Politicians  and 
papers  play  with  people  maliciously — they  provoke  people 
to  think  things  about  one  another  which  they  would  never 
think  about  one  another  if  not  tempted  to  do  so— people 
submit  too  tolerantly  to  their  politicians — " 

"Plunderbund  politicians,"  sympathetically  and  allit- 
eratively  interrupted  Professor  Trueby.  "Profiteering 
patrioteers." 


Unconventional  Joan  27 

"People  need  one  another  more  than  they  need  their 
politicians,"  continued  Joan,  "especially  our  two  big 
English  people — we  need  each  other  not  only  now  but 
after  the  war — always!  America  can  do  so  much  for 
England — for  English  people — and  England  can  do  so 
much — yes,  English  people  can  do  so  much  for  Ameri- 
cans, too.  Anglo-American  friendship  between  indi- 
viduals is  natural  and  common,  and  enmity  between  our 
politicians  and  papers  should  not  be  permitted  to  break  it 
down.  That's  the  only  way  to  look  at  it,  isn't  it?" 

The  trusting  blue  eyes  asked  approval  for  her  aspira- 
tion. Other  eyes,  some  of  them  moist,  others  blazing, 
unmistakably  gave  it. 

"Anyhow,"  she  added,  by  way  of  justifying  her  ideal, 
"that's  the  way  my  father  used  to  look  at  it.  My  mother 
told  me  so." 

That  settled  it.  That  made  it  all  right.  That  gave  her 
the  courage  to  say  it  all  over  again,  with  explanations. 

"You  know,  he  died  before  I  knew  him,  but  he  meant 
to  come  over  here  to  get  some  of  your  wonderful  spirit 
— 'aggressiveness/  Tom  calls  it,  don't  you  Tom?" 

"Pep,"  said  Tom,  encouragingly. 

"Yes,  and  give  something  English  in  exchange  for  it. 
So  mother  came,  with  me — and  we  opened  this  little  shop, 
and  offered  some  English  atmosphere  and  manners  to 
take  the  place  of  some  of  your  conventionalities — and 
we  got  in  exchange  a  lot  of  your  splendid  methods — and 
my  chance  to  get  a  year  in  college — and  the  opportunity 
to  know  you  all — Oh,  it  has  just  been  too  wonderful  to 
last—" 

She  broke  down. 

Her  little  valedictory  was  over. 


28  Unconventional  Joan 

Her  brief  apology:  an  unwitting  eulogy. 

One  by  one,  and  in  pairs  and  in  groups,  her  friends 
took  sorrowful  leave  of  her. 

Tom  stood  on  guard  by  her  side,  as  they  passed  out 
of  the  shop. 

"We'll  all  be  back  together  again,  Joan,  and  I'll  study 
my  text-books  instead  of  the  newspapers,"  comforted 
jaunty  Conny  Wefers,  as  he  passed  out  in  his  new  suit 
cut  after  the  latest  styles  advertised  by  the  Sunday  News. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  some  time  about  my  thesis — " 
Professor  Trueby  began,  but  was  interrupted  and  jostled 
along  by  Girda  Wickley,  who  softened  up  and  spluttered: 

"Joan,  will  you  come  and  live  with  me — will  you?" 

"Joan  is  going  to  live  with  us,"  insisted  Matthew 
Holden.  "I  was  just  on  the  point  of  asking  her.  I  am 
giving  up  my  professorship  to  become  Rector  of  Trinity 
Church  and  there  is  so  much  room  in  the  Rectory — " 

"Pardon  me,"  interrupted  Tom,  "but  will  you  good 
people  mind  holding  your  generous  offers  in  abeyance 
until  I  have  had  a  little  chat  with  Joan?" 

Aggressive  Tom ! 

"Tom  always  gets  what  he  wants — like  the  indomit- 
able American  that  he  is,"  commented  the  new  Rector  of 
Trinity,  in  a  knowing  way,  as  he  diplomatically  led  Girda 
and  Margaret  out,  and  left  the  shop  to  Joan  and  Tom — 
and — still  sitting  at  his  table — meditative  Jerry. 

"More  tea,  Jerry?"  playfully  enquired  Joan. 

"Yes,  tea  for  three,"  he  answered,  inviting  Tom  and 
Joan  to  join  him. 

Toying  with  his  telltale  pencil,  recently  used,  he  me- 
chanically and  appropriately  scribbled  on  the  menu  card, 
as  if  it  were  one  of  his  scientific  formulae: 


Unconventional  Joan  29 

T  — 4  — 3 

Tom  looked  at  the  telltale  pencil,  then  at  the  poem  in 
Joan's  hand,  then  at  Jerry's  downcast  eyes,  then  at  Joan's 
— downcast,  too. 

"Joan — "  Tom  hurriedly  began,  and  stopped,  embar- 
rassed by  Jerry's  presence. 

"Joan — "  slowly — very  slowly — began  Jerry,  and  then 
nervously  continued:  "I'm  through  school  now — you 
know — just  like  Tom — and  going  back  to  my  old  labora- 
tory— in  the  loft — where  I  worked  before  going  to  col- 
lege. The  War  Department  thinks  I  can  help  with  some 
electrical  work — I  think  you  can  help,  too— it  might  give 
you  a  way  of  doing  a  bit  to  'win  the  war' — you  have  been 
working  with  me  on  electrical  stuff  already,  you  know — 
do  you  think  you  could  keep  it  up — with  me — do  you 
think  you  could  do  that,  Joan  ?" 

It  had  taken  him  minutes  to  say  it.  He  hung  on  her 
reply. 

"Why  the  only  help  I  could  give,  Jerry,  would  be  to 
prepare  your  tea,"  laughingly  replied  Joan,  conscious, 
for  the  first  time,  of  something  deep  and  sweetly  resonant 
within  her — as  if  it  might  be  the  very  veins  of  her  gen- 
tle English  blood — that  seemed  to  vibrate  in  sympathy 
with  Jerry's  deliberate  tones,  and  harmonize  enchant- 
ingly  with  his  quiet  temperament. 

"That  will  do,  Joan,"  Jerry  hurriedly  accepted,  as  he 
symbolically  wrote  beneath  the  other  formula: 

T  — 4  —  2 

"It  won't  do  at  all,"  disconsolately  thought  Tom  to 
himself;  but  smilingly  he  said  aloud: 

"May  I  come  up  to  the  loft,  too — for  tea?" 

"You  certainly  may,   Tom,"   warmly  replied  Jerry, 


30  Unconventional  Joan 

"and  the  oftener  the  better,"  but  he  did  not  erase  the 
"X —  4  —  2."  Instead,  he  drew  a  circle  around  it,  and 
on  the  circle  put  two  dots,  together,  as  if  to  infer: 

"That  one  is  you,  Tom;  this  one  is  me  —  contestants 
at  the  post." 

Like  the  start  of  a  race ! 

Joan  picked  up,  to  keep,  the  precious  penciled  symbol 
of  new-born  aspirations  so  intimately  related  to  her,  and 
unwittingly  baptized  it  with  two  big  tears  that  happiness 
squeezed  from  her  eyes. 

"Good  old  Jerry,"  she  tenderly  murmured.  "Like  a 
father  to  me.  Dear  Tom,  like  a  brother  to  me." 

Wistful,  studious  Jerry. 

Dashing,  dominant  Tom. 


CHAPTER    II 


'  I  VHE  tea-shop  had  closed  in  May.  It  was  six  months 
later  when  Tom  Manly  stood  in  the  evening  with 
Keating  at  the  corner  and  watched  Joan  come  with  Jerry 
from  the  loft-building. 

Next  morning  the  thousands  who  had  crowded  out 
of  Newspaper  Row  the  night  before  packed  back  into 
its  confines,  as  usual,  until  there  were  nearly  as  many 
people  in  the  buildings  as  there  were  cubic  yards  of  space. 

As  early  as  seven-thirty  Joan  stopped  at  the  corner 
to  purchase  the  two  morning  papers  from  a  cherry- 
cheeked  newsboy,  and  then  cut  diagonally  across  the 
street  towards  the  old  loft-building  beside  the  Record 
office,  followed  by  a  black  pup,  a  collie,  a  cat  and  a 
'sooner,"  which  had  picked  her  out  of  the  crowd  a  block 
away. 

When  the  newsboy  had  asked  Joan  on  a  previous 
morning  why  she  called  her  fourth  companion  a  "sooner," 
she  had  replied  that  it  was  "because  he  would  sooner 
bark  than  bite." 

As  the  five  chums  reached  the  doorway  to  the  loft 
on  this  particular  morning  and  met  there  half  a  dozen 
other  pals  of  varying  sizes  and  breeds,  the  "sooner" 
verified  Joan's  appraisal  of  him  by  attempting  a  subdued 
sort  of  yelp,  until  her  reproachful  eye  and  a  collie's  growl 
sent  him  scampering  up  the  three  flights  of  stairs,  leader 
of  the  race  to  the  fourth  floor. 

These  were  some  of  Joan's  odd  friends.  She  had 
more  of  them  than  was  practical.  In  the  beginning  a 
neglected  cat  had  come  alone  and  taken  up  with  her, 

31 


32  Unconventional  Joan 

but  as  he  could  not  keep  her  kindness  to  himself,  a  lot 
of  uncared  for  animals  of  all  kinds  heard  about  it,  and 
these  spread  the  good  word  around  the  neighbouring 
block,  until  it  got  to  be  usual  for  animals  to  pick  up  an 
acquaintance  with  her,  in  hopes  of  being  invited  to  the 
loft  for  breakfast. 

Philosophical  Jerry,  studying  Joan  in  the  laboratory, 
in  his  natural  way  of  placing  everything  analytically 
under  a  mental  microscope,  set  down  among  his  first 
observations  of  her — in  a  little  diary  of  deductions  that 
charted  the  growth  and  conscientious  control  of  his  love 
for  her — the  impression  that  the  understanding  betwreen 
her  and  her  animals  evidenced  an  unusual  intensity  of 
mother-instinct  that  should  be  allowed  to  have  its  course, 
and  he  accordingly  hospitably  accepted  her  unconven- 
tional friends  whenever  he  arrived  at  the  loft  before  they 
had  been  comfortably  fed  and  dismissed. 

So  every  morning  there  were  cats  and  dogs  in  the 
outer  office  of  Jerry  Englin's  laboratory,  and  birds  on  its 
window-sills,  and  a  happy  little  lady  in  attendance  on 
all  of  them,  until  their  empty  tummies  had  been  nicely 
warmed  up  for  the  start  of  the  day's  work.  Then  the 
feathered  pets  flew  away,  and  the  four-legged  visitors 
filed  past  her  as  she  stood  at  the  doorway  saying  good- 
bye to  them,  christening  the  new  ones  and  calling  the  old 
ones  by  name,  "Paregoric,"  "Pickles,"  "Carbureter," 
"Caruso,"  "Crepe  de  Chine,"  "Hookworm,"  "Ice  Cream 
Soda,"  "Sour  Stomach,"  "Small  Change,"  "Tonsilitis," 
and  so  on. 

ii 
Joan's  nicknames  at  college  had  been  almost  as  numer- 


Unconventional  Joan  33 

ous  as  the  titles  of  her  pets.  Outstanding  characters  in 
any  community  usually  earn  several  baptisms,  and  Joan 
surpassed  most  of  her  companions  in  this  respect. 

Her  soft  contralto  voice  mellow  as  a  boy's,  and  a 
certain  resemblance  in  her  curls  and  her  slight  figure,  had 
prompted  her  earliest  class-mates  to  call  her  "Little  Lord 
Fauntleroy." 

Chivalrous  Tom  Manly  had  dubbed  her  "Sir  Galahad." 

The  college  smart  set  called  her  "Lady  Odd,"  because 
she  preferred  to  mope  on  scientific  stuff  with  solemn 
Jerry  Englin,  and  probably  also  because,  in  the  begin- 
ning, being  a  retiring  little  foreign  girl  in  the  midst  of 
strangers,  she  was  naturally  on  the  defensive  in  respect 
to  her  somewhat  odd  manners,  until,  in  an  unprejudiced 
way,  she  decided  that  her  customs  were  not  so  odd,  nor 
so  hurtful,  as  some  native  conventionalities  which  grad- 
ually she  frankly  discouraged,  after  her  defensive 
demeanour  developed  into  that  spirit  of  aggressiveness 
which  characterized  the  new  atmosphere  in  which  she 
found  herself,  and  which  aggressiveness  she  was  even- 
tually led  into  using,  in  a  very  militant  manner,  as 
earnestly  in  behalf  of  those  who  had  taught  it  to  her 
as  they  themselves  had  habitually  practiced  it  to  their 
own  disadvantage. 

This  phase  of  her  development  as  the  irresistibly- 
likable  but  scrupulous  supervisor  of  the  influences  in  her 
tea-shop  had  been  aptly  epitomized  in  one  of  the  numer- 
ous poetic  effusions  that  circulated  in  the  shop,  unsigned, 
and  unsuspected  by  everybody  as  attributable  to  Jerry 
Englin — a  literary  effort  which  hymned  her  diminutive- 
ness,  her  gaiety,  and  her  faithfulness  to  instinct,  by 
prettily  picturing  her  as  belonging  to  "a  joyful  band  of 


34  Unconventional  Joan 

fantastic  little  creatures  dropped  down  on  earth  from 
Heaven  to  kick  up  their  legs  as  much  as  three  inches 
from  the  ground  in  the  witchingest  kind  of  a  way  while 
laughingly  shrilling  their  plaudits  of  the  good  deeds  of 
mortals  with  voices  so  soft  that  they  seemed  to  humans 
to  be  none  other  than  their  own  inward  whispers." 

Tom  Manly  had  enthused  over  this  bit  of  verse  when 
it  reached  the  table  where  he  was  sitting  with  Joan's 
unknown  champion,  Jerry  Englin,  and  called  it,  "A 
beautiful  pen  painting  of  some  lucky  lad's  destined 
guardian  angel." 

"That's  right,  Tom,"  Jerry  soberly  acquiesced. 

"Slush,"  added  Girda. 

in 

Methodical  Jerry's  serious  diary  contained  the  follow- 
ing as  his  first  comprehensive  survey  and  digest  of  Joan's 
character,  after  they  left  college  and  had  worked  together 
for  a  while  in  the  loft: 

"While  others  around  her  grow  up  old  in  wisdom  of 
the  customs  characteristic  of  our  ultra-sophisticated  age, 
Joan,  although  the  most  light-hearted  of  creatures,  and 
the  very  merriest,  retained  at  school  and  still  retains  that 
kind  of  simplicity  which  makes  blase  ladies  refer  to  her 
disparagingly  as  'young.' 

"She  perplexingly  declines  to  grow  bigger  or  older." 

Jerry  felt  pretty  well  satisfied  with  that  particular  line 
in  his  diary.  It  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  fairly  good 
synopsis  of  the  subject  of  his  study;  but  he  amplified  it 
on  a  succeeding  page  at  considerable  length: 

"When  one  candidly  admits  that  this  epoch  of  the 
Great  War  is  the  wickedest,  the  most  abandoned,  the  rot- 


Unconventional  Joan  35 

tenest  in  all  history,  it  seems  preternatural  that  genuine 
integrity  such  as  Joan's  can  survive  in  the  midst  of  such 
uncontrolled  corruption. 

"The  difference  between  her  and  her  contemporaries 
is  the  difference  between  day  and  night.  She  is  modest 
when  vulgarity  seems  to  be  the  common  robe  of  women. 
She  has  the  bloom  and  beauty  of  youth  when  average 
complexions  are  of  the  detachable  kind.  She  is  plainly 
unaffected  while  others  strain  outlandishly  to  ape  the  garb 
and  pose  of  fashion-models  and  people  pictured  in  ad- 
vertisements. She  is  loyal  to  her  sex  when  the  practice 
of  character  assassination  has  become  second  nature  to 
women.  She  lends  her  faculties  to  substantial  things 
when  other  minds  exhaust  themselves  upon  frippery 
frivolities.  She  is  full  of  pity  when  selfish  cruelty  is 
the  rule.  She  is  pure  of  heart  in  an  age  which  has  for- 
gotten what  purity  is.  She  preserves  her  individuality 
undiluted  in  an  era  of  easy  and  general  surrender.  She 
is  sound  to  the  core  when  moral  canker  affects  everyone. 
She  is  a  conspicuous  exception — frankly  'unconventional' 
in  thought,  word  and  deed." 

On  the  day  after  that  on  which  Jerry  had  laboriously 
delivered  himself  of  this  conception  of  the  "exceptional 
woman"  and  cradled  it  between  the  folds  of  his  diary,  his 
mind  was  still  warmly  reminiscent  of  it,  and  the  shadow 
of  it  fell  full  across  some  similar  observations  which  he 
set  before  a  group  of  his  old  college-chums  who  visited 
the  campus  with  him  at  the  commencement  of  the  au- 
tumn term. 

Girda  patiently  heard  him  through,  and  then  sarcasti- 
cally remarked: 

"Jerry,  you  know  such  a  lot  about  women!" 


36  Unconventional  Joan 


IV 


"It   is  quaint,   if   ever   a   workshop  was/'   remarked 
Margaret  Holden  to  one  of  the  few  customers  in  her 
book  shop  across  the  street  from  Englin's  place,  pointing 
up  to  the  fourth  floor  of  the  loft  building.     "It  is  four 
floors  up  but  four  miles  away  from  this  hurlyburly  of 
congestion  and  materialism  down  here.     And  yet  it  is 
in  touch,  more  so  than  the  rest  of  us,  with  all  that  is  going 
on  down  here  and  everywhere,  because  Englin's  wireless 
equipment  keeps  his  rooms  buzzing  with  the  news  of 
the  world.     Go  up  some  time  and  have  a  look  at  the  place. 
You'll  see  a  lot,  and  you'll  hear  a  lot  more  than  you  see, 
I  promise  you.     No,  you  can't  get  past  Joan  in  the  outer 
office  ordinarily,  but  we're  chums,  you  know — yes,  Joan 
has  lived  at  home  with  father  and  me  since  she  left  col- 
lege, so  I'll  speak  to  her  and  get  you  a  royal  reception. 
You'll  love  Joan,  and  you'll  want  to  go  back  again  to  look 
at  the  motors  and  sparks  and  twinkling  lights  and  de- 
tectors and  tuning  coils,  and  listen  to  people  talking  to 
you  over  the  air  from  hundreds  of  miles  away,  and  hear 
music  coming  from  nooks  and  corners  of  the  rooms 
where  there  are  no  musical  instruments  at  all,  but  only 
wires  and  magnets  and  batteries.     Jerry  Englin  is  the 
man,  you  know — no,  you  don't  know,  do  you?     It's 
something  of  a  secret — a  government  secret — don't  tell 
anybody — he's  the  man  who  perfected  the  instruments 
for  talking  to  aeroplanes  while  they  are  still  up  in  the  air. 
Yes,  obscure  Jerry — right  up  there  in  that  loft — and  he 
believes  that  wireless  'phones  are  destined  soon  to  deliver 
to  us  operatic  tunes  direct  from  Vienna,  and  plaintive 
strains  straight   from  Aloha  land,  and   the   Gregorian 
Chant,  if  you  like  it,  all  the  way  from  the  Vatican  at 


Unconventional  Joan  37 

Rome.  Yes,  I  know  you  can't  believe  it ;  but  you  go  up 
and  hear  for  yourself.  And  just  think  of  a  girl  living  in 
an  atmosphere  like  that,  as  Joan  does.  It  is  so  extraor- 
dinary, so  novel — no,  I  wouldn't  call  it  bizarre — but 
tremendously  fascinating,  just  like  an  entirely  different 
world  from  ours — above  it,  better  than  it,  freer,  absolute- 
ly independent  of  us,  detached  from  everything  that  we 
depend  upon,  such  as  these  unwanted  books  that  I  am 
trying  to  sell  for  father,  and  his  preachings  at  church  and 
the  movies,  and  even  the  newspapers.  Oh,  you  want  to 
go  up  right  away,  do  you  ?  Yes,  and  you'll  want  to  stay, 
let  me  tell  you;  but  better  not  go  now.  Let  me  arrange 
it  with  Joan  to-night,  and  then  I'll  ring  you  up  in  the 
morning.  Oh,  no,  I  won't  forget.  Good-bye.  Watch 
out!  That  fellow  almost  bumped  you  over,  didn't  he? 
Wonder  if  he  will  work  as  quickly  when  he  gets  there 
as  he  does  while  he  is  on  his  way?  Good-bye." 


Up  in  the  loft,  beneath  a  beam  of  sunshine  that  flooded 
the  rooms  with  brightness,  the  wireless  was  bringing  in 
the  sad  deep  voice  of  an  operator  in  a  distant  broadcast- 
ing station,  singing  the  most  sorrowful  of  all  songs: 

"The  heart  bowed  down  by  weight  of  woe 
To  weakest  hope  will  cling — " 

The  throbbing  tones  were  overpowering  in  their  appeal 
for  sympathy. 

"Poor  man,"  thought  Joan,  as  she  opened  the  door 
into  the  inner  room  after  dismissing  her  pets.  "I  wonder 
if  he  really  feels  like  that,  or  whether  it  is  just  a  test-tune 
that  fits  in  with  his  experiments?  He  sings  it  so  often 


38  Unconventional  Joan 

every  clay,  and  sings  it  so  pathetically,  that  I  almost  sus- 
pect it  is  a  part  of  him."  She  paused  to  listen  to  the 
closing  strains,  her  heart  filled  with  the  eternal  tenderness 
of  women  towards  a  strong  man,  broken  by  despair: 

"For  Memory  is  the  only  friend 
That  Grief  can  call  its  own." 

The  lament  of  a  lost  soul!  Joan  stood  motionless. 
Her  head  was  bent  a  little  towards  the  ground;  she  was 
lost  in  thought,  not  conscious  of  herself  nor  of  the  world. 
The  glorious  colour  had  faded  from  her  cheeks,  leaving 
her  deathly  wrhite.  In  her  eyes  was  the  look  of  a  dumb 
creature  that  has  had  a  mortal  hurt.  Uncomplaining, 
unquestioning  in  its  pain,  so  was  she  suffering  doubly  in 
her  helplessness  to  help.  .  .  .  Thus  Jerry  Englin  found 
her,  standing  there  with  her  heart  showing  in  her  eyes, 
her  face  infinitely  sad  and  sweet.  Instantly  when  she 
saw  him,  the  droop  vanished  from  her  form,  but  the  sad 
melody  still  reached  her  ears: 

"The  mind  will,  in  its  worst  despair, 

Still  ponder  o'er  the  past, 
On  moments  of  delight  that  were 

Too  beautiful  to  last ; 
To  late  departed  scenes  extend 

Its  visions  with  them  flown, 
For  Memory  is  the  only  friend 

That  Grief  can  call  its  own." 

Jerry  Englin  had  crossed  the  room  and  stood  beside 
Joan,  listening  with  her,  and  peering  down  through  the 
depths  of  her  soul. 

As  the  wonderful  little  glass  valves  of  his  wireless 
detectors  on  the  table  before  him,  mysteriously  reaching 
out  through  miles  of  space  to  the  mournful  singer,  accur- 


Unconventional  Joan  39 

ately  recorded  the  singer's  words,  so  Jerry's  mind  and 
heart  reflected  Joan's  thoughts  and  feelings  at  the 
moment,  as  perfectly  as  if  an  electric  circuit  were  con- 
veying her  emotions  to  him.  His  whole  being  was 
attuned  to  hers.  Their  faculties  vibrated  sensitively  in 
exquisite  harmony ;  speechless  and  yet  speaking  as  clearly 
as  if  words  conveyed  their  thoughts;  intimately  joined, 
and  yet  apart. 

Jerry  felt  that  he  was  being  drawn  to  her ;  must  touch 
her,  must  take  her  in  his  arms.  She  was  very  close  to 
him,  closer  perhaps  than  she  had  ever  been  before.  With 
all  his  heart  he  wanted  to  comfort  her;  to  stroke  her 
hair,  if  he  might  do  nothing  more.  He  knew  how  she 
was  feeling,  and  how  heart-hurt  she  was.  She  was 
calling  upon  him  to  take  her,  to  soothe  her.  He  could 
hear  her  call  as  clearly  as  he  heard  the  words  over  the 
wireless  coils — perhaps  even  more  clearly.  Every  beat 
of  his  heart  was  bringing  it  to  him;  and  he  answered — 
as  well  as  he  could — caressing  her,  if  only  with  his  wor- 
shipful eyes  that  spoke  his  sympathy  with  her.  Nor  did 
Joan,  fail  to  grasp  how  utterly  he  was  feeling  with  her, 
and  her  face  coloured  with  gratitude  for  his  response  to 
her  mood.  Blushing,  she  dropped  her  head  and  tried 
to  hide  her  face,  and  the  analyst  in  Jerry  straightway 
wondered  why  girls  always  did  so  when  they  found  them- 
selves blushing,  and  why  the  oftener  it  happened  the  more 
they  failed  to  get  reconciled  to  it.  Deducing  that  Joan 
could  not  bear  to  have  him  see  her  blush,  and  observing 
that  she  had  moved  away  toward  their  little  table  in  the 
outer  room,  Jerry  made  things  worse  by  calling  attention 
to  her  blushes,  and  so  found  out  that  it  was  the  unkindest 
thing  a  man  could  do  in  the  circumstances.  But  still 


40  Unconventional  Joan 

his  scientific  nature  urged  him  to  test  the  phenomenon, 
and  to  see  his  test  work  out  just  as  he  had  calculated,  for 
now  her  face  was  flaming  with  colour.  Sorry  for  what 
he  had  done,  but  still  greatly  interested  analytically, 
according  to  his  mental  habits,  he  tried  for  a  reaction  by 
saying  the  blush  was  very  becoming  to  her  and  she  must 
not  mind  it.  Instantly  it  spread  with  still  deeper  intensity 
from  the  roots  of  her  hair  down  over  her  throat,  and  the 
tears  overflowed  a  little  and  ran  down  her  hot  cheeks. 

Any  other  man  than  poor  analytical  Jerry  Englin 
would  have  realized  that  she  was  calling — calling  now 
as  never  before  to  him,  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  and  on 
her  lips  to  crush  to  fragments  the  barriers  of  convention- 
ality that  they  were  maintaining  between  them.  But 
blundering  Jerry,  absorbed  with  theories  when  the 
moment  called  for  action,  and  in  great  distress  over 
what  he  had  done,  hurriedly  concluded  that  the  best 
thing  now  would  be  to  take  himself  off  for  a  while;  so 
according  to  his  habit  when  he  wanted  to  get  away  from 
things,  he  turned  on  one  of  his  buzzing  motors  and 
became  absorbed  in  its  whirring. 

He  loved  his  motors  without  restraint.  He  could  take 
liberties  with  them.  They  were  the  sole  recipients  of 
his  affectionate  ministrations,  and  by  way  of  return,  they 
completely  enveloped  him.  Their  soothing  hum  deli- 
ciously  detached  him  from  everything  but  his  own 
thoughts,  and  irresistibly  moulded  in  him  a  mind  becom- 
ing daily  more  and  more  prone  to  develop  speculative 
moods. 

But  he  turned  the  motors  off  after  a  moment,  because 
starting  his  work  ahead  of  other  set  formalities  was  a 
violation  of  the  methodical  routine  regularly  adhered  to 


Unconventional  Joan  41 

up  in  the  loft.  First  of  all  he  must  carefully  file  away 
the  two  newspapers  of  the  previous  night,  because  they 
were  intimately  connected  with  his  work.  So  were  all 
newspapers.  The  "Press"  was  his  preoccupation,  liter- 
ally his  obsession.  He  alone  knew  the  exact  extent  of 
his  planned  enhancement  of  war-propaganda  facilities. 
He  alone  dreamed  of  the  possibilities  attainable  if  his 
numerous  daily  tests  eventually  enabled  him  to  perfect 
his  partly  completed  invention.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
nearness  of  his  workshop  to  the  two  great  newspapers, 
perhaps  it  was  something  else,  which  had  set  him  trying 
to  find  a  means  of  "multiplying  the  power  of  the  Press." 

He  liked  that  phrase — "multiplying  the  power  of  the 
Press." 

He  was  accustomed  to  repeat  it  to  himself  for  the  sake 
of  stimulus  in  his  work. 

As  a  further  incentive  at  the  start  of  the  day,  his 
second  act  was  invariably  a  short  pause  at  the  front 
window,  where  he  could  peer  across  over  the  fire-escape 
at  the  office  of  the  News,  while  actually  standing  along- 
side of  the  editorial  rooms  of  the  Record,  and  only 
separated  from  them  by  a  wall.  It  was  distinctly  a 
newspaper  atmosphere  in  which  he  worked,  with  these 
big  news  bureaus  hemming  him  in  and  the  news  of  the 
world  pouring  into  his  laboratory  over  the  wireless.  So 
he  dreamed  that  the  power  of  propaganda,  proving 
already  so  valuable  in  warfare,  and  already  so  exten- 
sively adopted  by  the  Press,  could  be  multiplied  and 
intensified  by  his  invention — no  small  task  for  one  puny 
human  to  set  himself  in  the  winning  of  the  war. 

"What  else  better  could  I  do  ?"  he  used  to  ask  himself. 
"What  more  could  I  do  if  I  went  to  the  Front?" 


42  Unconventional  Joan 

Reason,  as  he  interpreted  it,  would  tell  him,  "Nothing 
more;  not  so  much." 

Between  repeated  acceptances  of  this  verdict  and  as 
frequent  recurrences  of  his  scruples,  he  goaded  himself 
into  working  harder  and  faster,  and  kept  reminding 
himself  that  nothing  must  be  permitted  to  interfere  with 
the  duty  delegated  to  him,  not  even  his  struggle  with  his 
attitude  towards  Joan. 

VI 

"Tea  is  ready,"  he  heard  Joan  call  to  him  in  her  soft 
voice,  and  there  she  was — the  little  mother  of  the  tea- 
shop — sitting  at  the  tiny  table,  waiting  for  him,  with  tea 
and  rolls,  and  the  two  morning  papers,  as  usual. 

That  was  the  regular  morning  programme ;  first,  filing 
yesterday's  papers;  second,  looking  out  of  the  window; 
third,  tea  and  rolls ;  fourth,  digesting  the  morning  papers ; 
and  then  to  work  for  the  full  day. 

He  turned  and  walked  towards  the  table,  thinking,  as 
he  always  did  at  this  point  in  the  morning,  how  admirably 
she  had  always  handled  his  affairs,  and  himself  too, 
how  unselfishly  she  looked  after  him,  how  he  depended 
upon  her,  and  how  unjust  to  her  it  all  was.  Tenderness 
invariably  almost  mastered  him  then — it  would  have  done 
so  had  he  allowed  it.  But  he  thought  too  much  of  her, 
and  honestly  appraised  his  own  peculiarities  too  well,  to 
want  her  to  have  to  put  up  with  him  all  his  life,  to  throw 
herself  away  on  one  who  grew  hourly  more  and  more 
secluded,  absorbed  in  his  experiments,  solitary,  wooden, 
actually  callous  from  concentration  upon  analytical  work 
that  over-developed  his  brain  and  dulled  his  heart.  Scien- 
tifically scrupulous  by  training,  he  could  not  but  admit 


Unconventional  Joan  43 

to  himself  that  this  was  obviously  a  tremendously 
hazardous  adventure  upon  which  they  had  embarked, 
not  hazardous  indeed  for  himself — selfish  rather  for 
himself,  nearly  eight  years  older  than  Joan  and  yet  so 
willingly  dependent  upon  her — but  hazardous  for  her, 
so  worthy  of  the  finest  man  in  the  city.  And  then  would 
come  the  stabbing  recollection  of  Tom  Manly,  so  much 
nearer  Joan's  age  and  so  certainly  destined  for  success. 

He  glanced  at  her  while  she  was  not  looking.  How 
calm  her  face  was!  How  fresh!  Not  a  trace  of  the 
effects  of  mental  anguish,  such  as  he  might  bring  her — 
undoubtedly  would  bring  her.  No.  He  knew  for  cer- 
tain, reasoning  scientifically,  that  he  could  never  be  one 
with  her — the  thought  of  it  he  had  philosophically  termed 
an  absurdity.  She,  a  creature  of  instincts,  tenderly 
emotional,  he,  coldly  calculating,  an  eternal  reasoner; 
how  could  two  such  natures  share  one  life?  It  was 
impossible,  unthinkable;  it  was  wrong  even  to  invite  it; 
and  he  must  tell  her  so,  as  plainly  as  he  could,  just  as 
he  had  often  tried  to  do  before. 

"Tom  Manly  looked  splendid  last  evening,"  he  said. 
"There's  one  man  who  certainly  has  worn  well  since  we 
were  at  school  together,  Joan." 

"Jerry,  I  was  just  going  to  say  that  very  same  thing 
to  you,"  she  replied. 

"There  it  is  again,  Joan;  that  intuition  of  yours,  mar- 
vellous attribute  of  women !  How  often  you  have  taken 
the  words  out  of  my  mouth  in  that  way,  the  very  thought 
out  of  my  mind!  But  I  wonder  if  you  can  see  in  my 
heart  the  feeling  that  is  there  this  very  minute,  the  solici- 
tude about  you.  Can  you?" 

Joan  coloured,  and  her  heart  beat  faster,  expectantly 


44  Unconventional  Joan 

and  hopefully  belying  the  dependability  of  her  instinct 
for  the  moment,  for  then  that  instinct  was  reading  his 
heart — not  as  he  would  have  read  it. 

"Can't  you  discern  what  I  am  feeling  about  you?"  he 
repeated.  It  was  not  an  easy  subject  of  conversation 
for  him,  and  he  wanted  her  help. 

She  noticed  that  he  did  not  say  "how"  but  "what"  he 
was  feeling  about  her.  She  wanted  to  hear  him  speak 
for  himself.  Once  only  in  her  lifetime  come  such  words 
to  a  woman's  ears  from  her  loved  one,  and  she  wanted 
to  hear  them.  Could  she  help  him  to  say  the  words  ? 

"Maybe  I  do  know  what's  in  your  heart,  Jerry,  but 
you  tell  me." 

"Well,  Joan,  I  have  been  feeling  it  so  acutely  that  it 
pains  me,  and  I  have  been  feeling  it  for  a  long  time,  and 
in  my  poor  way  I  have  often  been  trying  to  make  you 
see,  that — " 

He  hesitated.  It  hurt  him  to  hurt  her.  He  believed 
he  knew  exactly  how  deeply  and  unselfishly  she  cared  for 
him.  And  perhaps  he  was  wrong  anyhow  in  opposing 
her  inclinations.  He  realized  that  he  could  never  be 
happy  away  from  her.  He  was  confident  that  he  could 
never  be  happy  with  anyone  else.  In  fact,  he  did  not 
think  that  he  could  even  carry  on  his  work  without  her. 

That  was  a  serious  thought! 

No!     It  was  a  selfish  thought.     He  dismissed  it. 

But  then,  on  the  other  hand,  so  was  it  selfish  and 
inconsiderate  towards  Joan  to  deny  himself  to  her  if  that 
was  what  she  wanted.  But  was  it?  Was  he  not  pre- 
suming? Would  it  not  even  be  presumptuous  to  have 
said  what  he  was  going  to  say?  If  he  said  it  he  could 
not  take  it  back.  No,  he  would  say  nothing — that  is, 


Unconventional  Joan  45 

nothing  definitely  planned  in  advance  He  would  simply 
start  to  speak  and  let  his  words  follow  the  impulse  of 
the  moment.  Possibly  he  would  say  what  she  expected 
him  to  say,  whatever  that  was. 

"Yes,  Jerry,"  she  quietly  broke  in  on  his  soliloquy, 
trying  to  help  him. 

Always  serious,  he  had  never  before  looked  so  solemn 
as  he  did  now. 

"Joan" — he  lingered  a  moment  on  her  name,  not  trust- 
ing himself  at  first  to  look  at  her.  Then  he  went  on, 
haltingly : 

"Joan,  I  have  lately  been  feeling  clearly  what  I  have 
always  thought,  and  the  feeling  of  it  hurts  me  unbear- 
ably— that  it  is  all  wrong,  it  is  not  right,  my  depending 
on  you.  It  is  not  right  to  you,  I  mean — it  is  unfair. 
You  see  it's  this  way."  He  placed  his  knife  in  front  of 
her,  and  reaching  over  for  her  spoon  laid  it  alongside 
of  the  knife.  "I  am  the  knife,  Joan,  and  this  pretty  little 
spoon — that's  you.  I  am  painfully  straight,  and  sharp 
and  narrow,  you  see,  but  you,  by  your  nature,  bend  in 
naturally  on  this  side,  and  all  around,  and  broaden  out 
down  here,  and  you  are  made  to  help — that's  your  pur- 
pose, to  help,  but  I,  this  dangerous  old  stick  of  a  knife 
can  do  nothing  but  cut,  cut,  cut,  and  I  could  even  cut  you, 
see?"  and  he  made  the  knife  slip  and  jab  the  spoon. 
"That  was  an  accident  that  time,  but  it  could  easily 
become  a  habit.  It  frequently  does.  It  usually  does. 
Men  doing  work  like  mine  get  intensely  self-centred, 
abstracted,  aloof,  crabbed,  odd,  inconsiderate  by  nature, 
and  take  lots  of  things  for  granted — really  not  appreciat- 
ing them — hardly  even  noticing  them — just  as  I  have  so 
wrongly,  but  not  exactly  intentionally,  been  taking  you 


46  Unconventional  Joan 

for  granted,  Joan;  and  I  know  myself  so  well,  and  I 
know  so  well  what  you  deserve,  and  what  I  want  to  see 
you  have,  that  I  am  going  to  try  to  get  along  without  you. 
I  don't  know  how  I  am  going  to  do  it,  but  I  really  mean 
it.  I  am  going  to  try  to  get  along  without  you;  and  I 
want  you  to  know  that  that  is  just  exactly  how  I  feel 
about  it." 

Her  pleading  eyes,  deeply  glowing  with  her  pathetically 
hurt  feelings,  spoke  her  mute  reproach  as  touchingly  as 
the  few  words  with  which  she  answered  him : 

"Are  you  quite  sure,  Jerry,  that  that  is  just  exactly 
how  you  feel  about  it?" 

He  did  not  immediately  answer  her  question.  Was 
it  a  challenge  ?  Was  her  instinct  telling  her  that  he  was 
hiding  the  real  feelings  in  his  heart?  Or  was  she  want- 
ing him  to  say  it  again  and  conclusively  assure  her  that 
he  wanted  her  to  feel  released  and  free?  He  must 
think. 

Inquisitorial,  analytical  Jerry — he  must  think — not 
feel. 

And  Joan,  unreasoning  Joan — she  must  feel — not 
think;  understandingly  feel  for  Jerry  fretting  over  the 
unsolved  problems  of  his  invention;  understandingly 
sympathize  with  his  dissatisfaction  over  doing  hidden 
war-work  in  the  loft;  discerningly  pity  his  solicitude 
about  his  standing  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  had  gone 
to  the  Front ;  knowingly  want  to  ease  his  worry  over  the 
rectitude  of*his  attitude  towards  her.  "There's  such  a 
simple  solution  of  it  all — oh,  Jerry,"  her  heart  called  to 
him  "can't  you  see?" 

Jerry  inadvertently  reached  for  the  morning  News. 
That  was  always  the  next  step  in  the  day's  routine. 


Unconventional  Joan  47 

After  the  News  came  the  Record.  For  a  moment  he  was 
looking  at  the  paper  without  seeing  anything  printed  on 
it,  distractedly  thinking.  Then  he  deliberately  let  himself 
read,  promising  himself  that  he  would  answer  her  ques- 
tion in  a  few  minutes,  after  he  had  decided  just  what  it 
meant. 

In  Tom  Manly's  paper  he  came  across  an  article  about 
which  he  remarked  to  Joan,  "Tom  must  have  inserted  this 
for  my  especial  encouragement,"  because  it  dealt  so 
directly  with  his  experimental  activities.  He  read  it  to 
her  while  she  watched  him  intently,  admiring  his  glowing 
interest  in  things  connected  with  his  work  and  mentally 
reversing  his  own  self-condemnation  by  observing  to 
herself  that  he  was  so  far  above  the  average  of  men,  and 
so  necessary  to  the  advancement  of  their  comforts,  that 
not  only  Tom  Manly  and  his  paper,  but  all  the  others, 
owed  him  encouragement  and  co-operation  and  loving 
care. 

"RADIO-PHONES 

"Nothing  promises  to  be  of  greater  value 
than  the  development  of  the  Radio-Phone, 
already  engaged  in  the  transmission  of  musical 
concerts,  speeches,  weather  reports,  commercial 
messages  and  news.  The  number  of  instru- 
ments being  installed  is  increasing,  but  as  each 
set  has  been  independent  there  has  been  con- 
siderable crossing  of  currents  and  jamming  of 
wave  lengths.  Regulations  will  have  to  be 
made  to  clear  the  air  for  the  broadcasting  of 
the  proper  amount  of  news  and  entertainment, 
by  curbing  amateurs  and  controlling  individual 
receiving  sets.  This  will  be  accomplished  not 
only  by  restricted  broadcasting  but  also  by  the 


48  Unconventional  Joan 

restricted  installation  in  homes  of  standardized 
receiving  equipment  capable  only  of  receiving 
messages  from  properly  regulated  stations.'' 


"Do  you  see,  Joan,  what  that  means?  That's  what  we 
call  an  'inspired'  article.  That's  propaganda.  That 
paragraph  actually  indicates  and  tries  to  offset  the  solici- 
tude of  the  Press  over  the  encroachment  of  wireless  upon 
their  business.  The  newspapers  don't  want  news,  which 
they  sell,  broadcasted  gratuitously  or  differently  from 
the  way  in  which  they  want  to  put  it  out.  Notice  the 
wording  of  the  article,  'proper  amount  of  news'  and 
'properly  regulated'  receiving  sets.  That  means  farewell 
to  the  'Freedom'  of  the  air.  'Freedom'  of  the  air  is 
going  to  be  like  'Freedom'  of  the  Press.  'Freedom'  is 
going  to  mean  'Privilege.'  You  see  the  Press  is  going 
to  try  to  keep  control  of  the  air  by  controlling  the  kind 
of  receiving  instruments  installed  in  homes.  So  you 
can't  get  any  kind  of  news,  to  begin  with,  proper  or  im- 
proper, unless  you  have  one  of  their  standardized 
instruments;  and  even  when  you  do  have  one  of  their 
instruments,  you  can't  get  anything  but  what  they  con- 
sider proper,  because  the  instruments  won't  be  able 
mechanically  to  receive  anything  else,  see?  And  they'll 
do  it.  They'll  pass  their  own  legislation  to  do  it.  And 
nobody  will  stop  them,  for  if  anybody  stopped  them,  or 
tried  to  stop  them,  or  was  even  suspected  of  trying  to 
stop  them,  he'd  be  stopped  himself  and  put  out  of  the 
way— maybe." 

Then  his  eyes  fell  upon  a  second  article  which  made 
him  think  more  intently  than  ever  of  Joan  and  remember 
her  question  which  he  had  not  yet  answered: 


Unconventional  Joan  49 

"EMOTION  AND  WIRELESS 

"Every  human  being  is  both  a  sending  and 
a  receiving  radio-telephonic  instrument,  and 
this  quality  explains  many  instances  of  instinc- 
tive knowledge  and  telepathy.  Physiologists 
agree  that  nervous  energy  is  electrical,  and  as 
all  other  electrical  impulses  set  up  wireless 
waves  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  nervous 
energy  must  do  the  same  when  exerted  in  pain, 
affection,  passion  and  all  brain  activities. 
There  is  no  physical  improbability  that  the 
nerves  of  the  brain  contain  some  arrangement 
of  tissues  competent  to  act  as  a  wireless  de- 
tector or  receiver  for  nerve-impulses  sent  out 
from  elsewhere.  Thus  we  have  minds  in  tune, 
telepathy,  intuition,  the  magical  influence  one 
upon  another,  manifested  in  the  activities  of 
great  leaders  of  armies,  orators,  teachers,  and 
the  marvellous  instinct  of  women." 

"Joan,  how  do  you  feel  about  that?" 

He  frequently  asked  her  not  what  she  "thought,"  but 
how  she  "felt"  about  the  many  subjects  which  they  were 
accustomed  analytically  to  examine  together.  He  was 
thinking  of  what  he  confessed  to  Tom  Manly  about  her 
being  almost  a  "part  of  his  brain." 

"It  is  a  naive  explanation,"  she  replied.  "A  woman 
can't  satisfactorily  explain  her  instinct  to  a  man.  A 
woman's  intuitive  knowledge  of  some  things  is  knowledge 
that  differs  profoundly  from  all  other  in  its  source.  It 
hardly  comes  from  her  sensations,  and  certainly  not  from 
her  reason — " 

"Aren't  you  presupposing  its  origin  must  be  from 
within?"  he  speculatively  interrupted.  "Couldn't  it  be 
from  outside,  as  the  article  intimates?" 


50  Unconventional  Joan 

"Yes,  Jerry,  from  without  and  from  above.  A  woman 
reveres  her  intuitions.  They  seem  to  proceed  from  an 
unknown  mysterious  source,  distinct  from  her  ordinary 
self,  and  frequently  they  assume  a  mystical  brilliance 
inspiring  in  her  a  feeling  akin  to  awe.  They  suggest  in 
explanation  of  themselves,  that  by  the  side  of  ourselves 
there  is  present  another  being;  some  voice  addresses  us 
and  speaks  to  us.  This  voice  seems  to  proceed  from  a 
nature  higher  than  our  own,  instinct,  conscience,  soul, 
call  it  what  you  will,  possessing  a  higher  authority  and 
transcending  our  individual  will,  and  suddenly  impulses 
appear  in  our  consciousness." 

Englin,  accustomed  though  he  was  to  dissecting  many 
things  with  her,  listened  in  amazement  to  her  revelation 
of  the  innermost  processes  of  her  soul,  and  amplified 
her  observations  in  his  own  mind.  He  said  slowly: 

"You  are  right,  Joan.  There  is  no  impassable  gulf 
between  God  and  the  human  soul.  There  are  moments 
of  perfect  union  between  the  human  and  the  Divine, 
moments  when  a  human  being  feels  and  experiences  God 
no  less  immediately  than  his  own  self." 

But  to  himself  he  thought,  and  determined  to  write  in 
his  diary:  "It  is  plain  that  a  good  woman  following  her 
instinct  can't  be  wrong,  can't  be  influenced  by  degrading 
conventions,  must  of  necessity  be  above  what  is  common- 
place, practically  inspired — almost  Divine.  And  that  is 
why  men  worship  good  women,  not  merely  covet  them, 
in  the  way  that  they  covet  the  conventional  among  them 
who  never  can  know  what  it  means  to  be  loved,  poor 
creatures,  being  merely  coveted.  And  so  for  a  man  to 
have  a  good  and  devoted  woman  near  him  is  to  possess 
a  guardian  angel,  and  to  dismiss  one  is  like  spurning 


Unconventional  Joan  51 

Divine   inspiration   and   rejecting   priceless   protection." 

He  now  felt  even  less  able  to  answer  that  question  of 
hers.  He  philosophically  asked  her  one  instead: 

"Joan,  don't  a  woman's  sensations  sometimes  fight 
against  her  instincts?  Aren't  women  liable  to  confuse 
what  they  fancy  to  be  instinct  with  what  is  merely  sen- 
sation; I  mean  sense-impulse,  to  use  plainer  language, 
heart-impulses,  such  as  all  of  us  by  nature  necessarily 
experience?" 

He  was  gropingly  trying  to  find  out,  if  he  could, 
whether  or  not  their  odd  relations  had  the  sanction  of  her 
instinct.  He  was  thinking  that  he  could  trust  her  instinct 
to  approve  or  disapprove  of  them.  He  did  not  think  he 
dared  go  against  it. 

"Yes,  my  struggle  is  frequently  between  my  heart 
desires  and  my  instinct.  That's  when  the  heart-desires 
are  wrong.  With  a  man — with  you — as  for  instance  at 
this  minute,  the  struggle  is  sometimes  between  heart- 
impulse  and  your  reason.  Either  your  reason  is  right  in 
this  instance  or  my  instinct  is  right.  You  have  very 
candidly  told  me  what  you  think  your  reason  dictates, 
and  you  want  to  know  what  my  instinct  is  saying  to  me. 
I  won't  tell  you  that,  but  I  will  tell  you  this,  Jerry,  that 
a  woman's  instinct  has  frequently  held  out  successfully 
against  a  seemingly  logically  proven  absurdity  and  shown 
it  to  be  sophistry." 

She  pushed  Mr.  Knife  and  Miss  Spoon  together  with 
a  quick  little  shove,  as  if  she  were  saying,  "Of  course 
they're  different,  but  they  go  together,"  and,  having 
delivered  to  Jerry  this  merciless  knockout,  gathered  up 
the  knives  and  spoons  and  cups  and  saucers  and  left  him 
sitting  there. 


52  Unconventional  Joan 

Mentally  staggered,  for  a  moment  he  did  nothing,  and 
stared  with  eyes  that  saw  nothing.  Then  he  reached 
mechanically  for  the  other  paper,  the  Record,  simply 
because  that  was  the  next  routine  thing  to  do. 

She  had  not  quite  crossed  the  room  before  she  heard 
him  exclaim: 

"Joan!"  It  was  a  voice  of  agony.  "Joan!"  Her 
heart  was  breaking  within  her.  "Joan,  my  God,  Joan — " 

Pleading  avowal  of  his  dependence  upon  her! 

Piteous  to  hear ! 

Painful  transfusion  of  happiness  into  her  soul — ec- 
static happiness  into  her  tortured  soul! 

She  stopped,  without  turning,  transported,  waiting  for 
him. 

He  had  arisen.  She  heard  him  coming  to  her.  He 
seemed  to  stagger.  She  turned.  His  face  was  livid. 
In  his  trembling  hand  was  Keating's  paper,  and  beneath 
his  pointing  finger  the  headline: 

"Electrical  Englin  Denies  Departing  for  the  Front." 

Malevolent  sequel  to  Keating's  corner  conversation 
with  Tom  Manly. 

Accusing,  sarcastic,  venomous — the  withering  headline 
scoffed  at  Jerry,  snarled  at  him,  bit  him,  hurt  him,  almost 
killed  him. 

"Slacker,  coward,  yellow-streak,"  it  hissed  at  him 
before  the  world,  with  its  concocted  story  about  "being 
at  work  on  a  war-invention  which  he  considered  more 
important  than  fighting  at  the  Front." 

Unanswerable,  it  damned  him  and  yet  let  him  live ! 

Incoherently  muttering  "What  more  could  I  do?"  he 
sank  into  a  chair  staring  fixedly  at  nothing. 


Unconventional  Joan 

Joan,  stooping  over  him,  took  his  cold  and  tretr.biing 
hands  in  her  own  and  sobbed  "Jerry,  Jerry!"  The  rush 
of  tears  would  not  let  her  say  more,  but  presently  she 
fought  them  back  and  asked  him  why  he  had  given  the 
interview  to  the  Record. 

"Interview?"  he  gasped.  "Interview?  There  was 
no  interview — merely  a  'phone  call — Keating  just  'phoned 
— claimed  he  had  heard  that  I  was  going  to  the  Front — 
and  was  it  true  ?  and  I  said  'no' — and  on  that,  alone,  like 
newspaper  men  do,  he  fashioned  his  story — Keating — 
infamous,  lying  blackguard!" 

His  passion  and  his  resentment  were  getting  the  better 
of  him.  His  face  worked  with  emotion.  He  jumped 
up  and  went  striding  over  to  the  wall  that  separated  him 
from  the  Record  office  as  if  to  plunge  straight  through 
it  at  his  attacker,  and  stood  there  facing  it,  gritting  his 
teeth  and  muttering: 

"I'll  take  him  by  the  throat— I'll— no  I  won't— I'll  let 
him  live  and  make  him  suffer — I'll  take  away  his  power 
to  do  to  others  what  he  has  done  to  me — I'll — "  then  he 
staggered  back  exhausted  into  his  chair. 

And  as  he  brokenly  crouched  there,  his  head  buried  in 
his  hands,  Joan,  kneeling  beside  him,  and  gazing  at 
him  imploringly,  tenderly  whispered: 

"Oh,  Jerry,  you  do  need  me  now." 

And  prophetically,  from  afar,  as  if  echoing  her  words, 
the  mournful  voice  of  the  wireless  singer  began  again 
its  throbbing  song  of  grief: 

"The  heart  bowed  down  with  weight  of  woe — '* 


CHAPTER  III 


OX  the  morning  following  Keating's  cunningly  de- 
signed assault  upon  him,  disgraced  Jerry  shunned 
everyone,  including  Joan.  Like  the  lepers  who  cry  out, 
"Unclean,  unclean,"  his  slinking  attitude,  as  he  crept 
to  the  loft,  unusually  early,  warned  the  few  who  saw 
him,  "Keep  away  from  me."  His  rounded  shoulders 
suggested  grief.  His  glaring  eyes  and  twitching  lips 
intimated  delirium,  as  he  kept  mumbling  to  himself  that 
the  only  answer  to  Keating's  insinuation  would  be  his 
quick  completion  of  an  invention  that  must  be  unques- 
tionably more  valuable  to  the  nation  than  his  services  at 
the  Front. 

"To  stop  my  work,  in  answer  to  this  challenge,  and 
fight,  would  be  to  confess  that  I  do  not  expect  to  succeed 
with  my  work,"  he  argued.  "Unless  I  do  succeed  I  am 
a  proved  and  branded  shirker.  As  such  I  am  fit  to  asso- 
ciate with  nobody,  least  of  all  with  Joan — my  only  escape 
lies  in  greater  application  to  my  work,  greater  intensity, 
more  concentration,  complete  isolation,  especially  from 
Joan." 

He  had  arrived  at  the  loft  ahead  of  her,  for  the  first 
time  that  he  could  remember.  He  prepared  his  own  tea 
and  had  it  with  his  roll,  all  alone.  Then  the  two  morning 
papers,  brought  in  by  himself,  instead  of  being  carefully 
digested  as  usual,  were  slipped  under  his  arm  to  be  taken 
into  the  inner  room,  where  he  alone  could  see  the  antici- 
pated continuation  of  Keating's  attack  upon  him. 

But  before  he  buried  himself  in  the  inner  workroom, 
away  from  her,  he  took  his  customary  stand  beside  the 

54 


Unconventional  Joan  5^ 

window,  this  time  watching  and  waiting  for  Joan  to  turn 
the  corner.  As  soon  as  he  saw  her  come  into  view,  fol- 
lowed by  her  faithful  army,  he  hurriedly  poured  some 
boiling  water  into  her  teapot  lingered  a  torturous  moment 
while  arranging  her  knife  and  spoon  on  the  table,  and 
then  went  into  his  workshop  and  closed  the  door,  intend- 
ing that  when  she  and  the  little  army,  with  its  reinforce- 
ments, reached  the  top  of  the  stairs,  she  should  find  her 
tea  ready  to  pour  out. 

Joan  discreetly  took  no  exception  to  Jerry's  absence 
from  their  customary  morning  meal.  Instead  of  sum- 
moning him  from  the  inner  room  where  he  had  buried 
himself,  she  understood,  and  let  it  be  that  way. 

"It  is  a  natural  thing  for  him  to  do,"  she  thought,  "but 
won't  it  only  intensify  his  strain  by  emphasizing  his  sense 
of  shame?" 

A  moment  later,  as  she  passed  their  little  table  on  her 
way  to  ration  the  army,  she  discovered  a  message  which 
he  had  contritely  left  for  her  when  he  lingered  over  the 
knife  and  spoon.  The  knife  and  spoon  were  lying  along- 
side of  each  other,  very  close  together. 

That  discovery  was  responsible  for  such  an  over- 
whelming and  weakening  pitter-patter  of  her  heart  that 
she  had  to  sit  down  a  moment,  while  her  regulars,  who 
had  hitherto  been  her  first  care  always,  waited,  sitting  in  a 
row  around  the  table,  some  of  them  begging  with  their 
front  paws,  and  some  of  them  protesting  a  little  with 
subdued  whines. 

Jerry  heard  her  chiding  them,  in  her  softly  modulated 
voice: 

"Paregoric,  are  you  sick?     Hookworm,  who's  your 
noisy  friend?    Be  quiet,  Caruso !" 


56  Unconventional  Joan 

And  as  he  waited,  close  to  the  shut  door,  to  listen  to 
her  voice,  he  felt  sure  that  some  of  her  conversation  with 
her  forces  was  meant  to  be  heard  by  him.  He  suspected 
that  it  was  her  tactful  way  of  encouraging  him.  He 
heard  her  say  to  her  brigade: 

"You  fellows  are  a  lot  of  loafers — I  should  like  you 
better  if  you  did  something." 

That  meant  he  must  not  give  up  until  he  had  succeeded, 
he  felt  sure.  Later  on  he  heard  her  dismiss  her  troops 
with  a  sharp  little  command: 

"Leave  your  fleas  outside  next  time." 

This  he  suspected  referred  to  worries. 

Thus  Joan  brought  the  sunshine  of  her  bright  little 
spirit  into  the  loft  on  the  morning  of  this  never  to  be  for- 
gotten Friday,  that  marked,  among  other  momentous 
events,  the  rapid  approach  of  Jerry's  hour  of  crisis. 

ii 

He  could  never  have  borne  to  go  through  the  morning 
newspapers  with  her.  He  could  hardly  stand  it  alone. 
Their  increasing  personal  attacks  excited  him ;  their  war- 
propaganda  mockingly  humiliated  him. 

The  assaults  in  the  Record  were  ruthless  and  cunning. 
They  took  the  form  of  supposed  letters  to  the  editor  con- 
cerning what  "Electrical  Englin"  might  have  scientifically 
suggested  in  this,  that  and  the  other  contingency  at  the 
Front.  One  especially  insinuating  letter  referred  to 
Englin's  possible  improvement  of  gas-masks  after  having 
worn  them.  An  inside  page  published  his  photograph 
over  an  article  that  emphasized  the  "rare"  wisdom  he  had 
manifested  in  choosing  between  fighting  and  inventing. 
It  was  diabolically  sarcastic.  Jerry  soliloquized: 


Unconventional  Joan  57 

"Now  I  am  loathed." 

Keating  had  conspicuously  spared  no  painc  to  present 
him  in  a  ridiculous  and  unfavourable  light.  The  on- 
slaught was  obviously  deeply  purposeful.  It  was  plainly 
not  made  with  the  mere  object  of  selling  newspapers. 
It  was  much  more  far-reaching  than  that.  Joan  feared 
so,  too,  when  she  read  her  own  copy  of  the  Record. 

She  knew  Keating  flattered  himself  that  he  was  shrewd 
and  far-seeing.  Noting  that  Tom  Manly's  paper  took 
no  part  in  the  attack,  she  telephoned  Tom  and  asked  him 
to  publish  in  his  paper  a  refutation  of  the  Record  articles. 

"There  is  nothing  to  refute,"  Tom  replied,  "and  if 
our  paper  contradicted  or  attacked  the  Record  we  would 
simply  advertise  and  intensify  the  insinuations." 

"The  hopelessness  of  opposition  to  the  Press,"  Joan 
realized. 

In  addition  to  the  humiliation  of  the  Record's  attack 
upon  him,  the  war-propaganda  in  both  papers  mortified 
Jerry.  The  dispatches  from  the  firing  line  read  like  mes- 
sages directed  personally  to  himself.  His  own  privileged 
wireless  detectors,  gathering  news  from  everywhere, 
shamed  him  every  few  minutes  with  their  stories  of  sac- 
rifice and  bravery.  Before  him,  as  he  listened,  men  and 
boys  struggled  and  died  in  thousands — fathers,  husbands, 
his  friends,  the  sons  of  his  friends — those  who  were  his 
friends,  but  what  could  they  think  of  him  now?  He 
watched  them  suffer,  suffered  with  them,  and  kept  con- 
stantly telling  himself  that  he  "must  do  more,"  and  at 
the  same  time,  enquiring,  "What  more  can  I  do?" 

"I  could  work  harder,"  he  answered  himself.  "I  could 
double  my  tests.  I  could  lengthen  my  hours." 

So  he  intensely  determined  to  do  all  of  these  things, 


58  Unconventional  Joan 

and,  as  quickly  as  if  he  had  been  doing  forced  marches, 
the  physical  part  of  him  instantly  began  to  break  down 
under  his  nervous  and  exaggerated  effort  to  finish  in  this 
one  day  what  he  might  not  normally  accomplish  in  many. 

With  the  foundation  thus  shaking  beneath  him,  his 
mental  stability  weakened  just  as  quickly.  Within  an 
hour  after  beginning  to  work  he  found  it  difficult  to  con- 
centrate upon  his  experiments.  Distractions  crept  into 
his  efforts.  Poison-thoughts  began  to  pollute  his  mind. 

"I  wonder  why  Tom  Manly  doesn't  go  to  the  Front?" 
he  asked  himself  in  one  particularly  bitter  moment. 

And  his  hate  of  Keating  became  vicious.  "Skunk! 
Fetid  himself — so  he  believes  everybody  else  foul ;  always 
spitting  his  putrid  venom  at  those  he  hates." 

With  body  and  mind  fatally  harassed  and  weakened, 
his  moral  fibre  showed  similar  signs  of  sudden-  collapse. 
He  sensed  it.  That  strong  will  of  his  was  tottering — 
no  longer  could  it  hold  him  firmly  in  the  way  of  rectitude 
and  exceptional  achievement.  He  knew  he  was  not  suc- 
ceeding. He  was  hardly  even  working.  And  there 
grew  in  him  an  unconquerable  longing  to  have  someone 
to  lean  upon. 

"Honest  towards  Joan  in  my  strength,  am  I  going  to 
be  unfair -to  her  in  my  weakness?"  he  asked  himself,  and 
answered  with  an  emphatic  "No!  I  may  be  going  to 
fail,  but  I  am  not  going  to  thrust  a  failure  on  her.  By 
Heaven,  no,  I  am- not  going  to  do  that!" 

He  fumbled  nervously  with  his  tuning-coils  as  he 
despairingly  realized  how  miraculous  would  be  the  as- 
sistance necessary  to  support  him  in  his  task,  and  weakly 
wondered  if  Joan  had  noticed  the  knife  and  spoon. 
Under  the  glow  of  his  thoughts  of  her,  beckoning  to 


Unconventional  Joan  59 

him,  guiding  him,  helping  him,  feebly  he  stretched  forth 
his  hands  to  her  as  a  sinking  man  in  the  darkness  battling 
against  the  battering  waves  reaches  out  piteously  towards 
the  fading  light  of  the  receding  ship. 

"O  God,  help  me  in  my  struggles,"  he  prayed.  "Help 
me  in  my  struggle  against  the  Press,  that  I  may  make 
it  better  before  it  gets  the  best  of  me.  Help  me  in  my 
struggle  with  the  worst  part  of  myself,  that  I  may  be 
true  to  myself  without  being  unacceptable  to  my  fellow- 
men.  Help  me  in  my  struggle  to  complete  my  invention, 
that  .through  it  I  may  aid  my  country,  and  be  worthy  of 
Joan.  Help  me  in  my  struggle  to  be  honourable  toward 
Joan,  that  I  may  not  take  her  if  I  cannot  be  worthy  of 
her.  O  God,  help  me." 

In  the  evening,  after  he  had  been  closeted  for  more 
than  ten  unsuccessful  hours,  he  raised  his  throbbing  head, 
expecting  Joan  to  open  the  door  at  any  moment  to  bid 
him  "Good  night."  She  must  not  find  him  with  his  head 
bowed  in  despair  upon  his  arm.  He  would  hide  every- 
thing from  her,  he  had  determined — the  pain  in  his  head, 
the  pain  in  his  heart. 

"They'll  print  a  story  of  how  I  have  been  misusing 
her  here  in  the  loft,  next,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and  it 
will  be  the  truth.  Maybe  they'll  come  and  shoot  me 
then.  And  I'll  deserve  it." 

She  must  find  him  at  work,  in  harness.  He  fastened 
the  headgear  of  his  most  sensitive  long  distance  wireless 
detectors  around  his  head.  He  had  not  "listened  in"  on 
the  air  with  them  that  day.  With  them  he  could  often 
hear  the  big  German  wireless  tower  at  Nauen  sending 
out  German  propaganda  to  intimidate  the  world.  It  was 
talking  now,  in  the  same  deceptive  and  tricky  way. 


60  Unconventional  Joan 

"Dreadful  news  momentarily  expected  from  General 
Headquarters,"  it  said. 

"Why  didn't  it  use  the  word  'lies'  instead  of  'news'?" 
he  wondered.  "Wasn't  everybody  aware  that  it  never 
gave  news,  but  only  lies?  And  didn't  it  realize  that 
people  knew  that?  Yes,  maybe  it  did,  but  it  certainly 
also  understood  that  a  lie  can  get  believed.  And  that 
was  the  prodigious  function  of  propaganda,  to  get  those 
lies  believed.  Repeating  the  lie  again  and  again  was  one 
method.  Elaborating  it  was  another.  The  Germans  had 
innumerable  ways.  With  them  insinuation  was  now  a 
fine  art."  He  noted  that  they  were  using  one  of  their 
methods  at  that  very  instant. 

"Please  keep  out,  please  wait,  news  expected  instantly," 
the  German  wireless  tower  kept  repeating,  seemingly  to 
prevent  other  wireless  towers  from  breaking  in  and  jam- 
ming the  wireless  waves,  but  actually  to  evoke  suspense. 
Yes,  it  had  played  its  tricks  so  often  that  you  would  think 
that  everybody  would  break  in  on  it  and  tell  it  to  go  to 
the  devil,  he  mentally  commented.  But  nobody  did.  On 
the  contrary,  the  whole  world  listened,  as  it  always  eager- 
ly listens  to  lies  and  scandals,  and  Jerry  knew  that  thous- 
ands of  printing  presses  stood  ready,  and  that  the  moment 
the  suspense  was  broken  those  iron  voices  would  magnify 
the  lie  and  shout  it  forth  to  hundreds  of  millions  of  will- 
ing ears,  and  get  it  believed  by  nearly  as  many  brains. 

That,  he  calculated,  was  the  frightful  power  of  propa- 
ganda, the  tremendous  force  which  he  was  actually  strug- 
gling by  his  invention  to  "multiply" — yes,  multiply ;  but 
also  purify. 

Every  time  he  heard  that  crafty  German  operator 
compel  the  world  to  believe  him  by  his  simple  pressure  of 


Unconventional  Joan  61 

an  electric  key,  he  wanted  to  close  a  little  electric  switch 
on  his  table  and  unrestrainedly  outstrip  the  German  in  his 
lightning-like  dash  not  to  a  few,  but  to  all  the  brains  of 
the  world,  with  truth  instead  of  lies.  Some  day  he 
would  do  it,  he  had  firmly  believed,  and  he  still  despair- 
ingly believed,  if  his  tests  would  only  provide  the  one 
needed  link,  if  his  experiments  would  only  reveal  the 
needed  material  he  had  been  seeking,  if  his  strength  of 
body  could  hold  out,  and  his  mind  keep  clear,  and  if  his 
will-power  would  bind  him  steadfastly  to  his  task. 

Thus  critically  he  summed  up  his  situation,  as  he  had 
nervously  done  from  hour  to  hour  all  day,  and,  in  an 
overwhelming  attack  of  self-dissatisfaction,  tore  the  wire- 
less equipment  from  his  head  and  threw  it  on  the  table, 
where  it  lay,  mocking  him  and  challenging  him  to  conquer 
it  or  surpass  it,  if  he  could. 

in 

Joan  found  him  idly  staring,  instead  of  working  as  he 
had  wanted  her  to  find  him.  That  unnerved  him  still 
more,  and  he  almost  repulsed  her  as  she  sat  down  beside 
him  at  his  work-table.  She  was  thinking  of  the  spoon 
beside  the  knife.  He  was  thinking  of  his  day's  failure 
to  blot  out  his  stigma  and  become  worthy  of  her.  The 
way  in  which,  as  if  disturbed,  but  really  fearing  to  trust 
himself,  he  drew  back  from  her  urged  her  to  explain: 

"I  just  wanted  to  sit  here  with  you  a  moment,  before 
going,  Jerry." 

He  did  not  like  to  let  her  see  his  tense  and  bloodless 
face.  He  kept  it  turned  away.  He  would  not  have  her 
pity  him.  Joan  placed  before  him  a  memorandum  of 
his  experiments  for  the  preceding  day,  with  suggestions 


62  Unconventional  Joan 

for  further  analyses.  Her  daily  hope  and  prayer  was 
that  some  day  her  memorandum  would  bring  him  the 
suggestion  that  would  lead  to  his  quick  solution  of  their 
tremendously  important  problem. 

She  always  called  it  their  problem. 

Any  day  might  bring  success.  Every  day  she  said  to 
herself,  as  she  placed  it  before  him:  "Maybe  to-day  is  the 
day."  She  said  it  on  this  occasion,  as  usual,  and  eagerly 
waited  for  him  to  turn  and  examine  it.  But  he  hid  his 
face  with  his  hand  as  he  turned  toward  her.  She  saw 
it,  however,  and  discerned  that  he  was  hiding  it.  A 
little  gasp  of  mingled  horror  and  sympathy  escaped  her. 
He  purposely  took  no  notice  of  her  tender  commiser- 
ation. He  would  not  have  her  pity. 

"I'll  brave  it  out  until  she  goes.  I'll  not  let  her  see — 
I'll—" 

Joan,  watching  his  face  behind  his  hand,  and  suspect- 
ing the  immense  effort  that  he  was  making  to  appear 
interested  in  her  memorandum,  saw  him  stiffen,  begin  to 
tremble,  drop  his  hand  to  her  memorandum,  start  to 
smile,  then  laugh  spasmodically,  almost  hysterically,  con- 
trol himself  with  a  mighty  effort,  and  finally  turn  to  her 
the  pathetically  grateful  eyes  of  a  condemned  man  un- 
expectedly saved  in  the  very  agonies  of  death.  Hoarsely 
he  muttered: 

"Joan,  you've  done  it!  I'm  sure  you've  done  it!  I 
was  never  surer  of  anything  in  my  life!  It's  what  I 
couldn't  think  of — I  tried  and  tried,  but  I  guess  I  just 
couldn't.  And  now  I  can  see  how  to  do  it  as  clearly 
as  if  I  were  doing  it  this  minute." 

In  his  relief  his  pent-up  and  almost  abandoned  hopes 
expressed  themselves  in  a  spirit  of  exultation  such  as  he 


Unconventional  Joan  63 

had  never  before  experienced.  His  sunken  eyes  glowed 
again  with  the  fires  of  enthusiasm.  Close  beside  him, 
her  own  eyes  filled  with  tears,  Joan  sat  quietly  weeping. 

"I'll  just  make  that  simple  test  that  you  have  suggested 
down  there,  Joan,"  pointing  to  it  on  her  memorandum, 
"and  immediately  I'll  have  what  I  want.  I'll  have  my 
needed  link.  I'll  be  compelled  to  refine  it,  and  improve 
it,  but  I'll  work  at  that  night  and  day — and — and  Joan 
it  is  you  who  have  done  it — you — not  I.  You  did  it — " 

Impulsively  he  took  her  face  between  his  hands  and 
kissed  her  on  the  forehead,  in  a  way  that  surprised  him, 
once  he  had  done  it,  and  Joan,  knowing  it  was  an  ex- 
pression of  his  gratitude,  paled  instead  of  blushing 
beneath  it,  from  a  misgiving  that  she  might  never  'expe- 
rience the  expression  of  his  love. 

"You  will  walk  home  with  me  to-night,  Jerry,  won't 
you?  There  are  people  coming  to  dinner,  and  it  will  be 
a  nice  break  for  you  and  take  all  these  old  electrical 
cobwebs  out  of  your  poor  head,"  she  said,  to  calm  him. 

"Cobwebs?"  he  meekly  protested.  "There  have  been 
serpents,  spiteful  and  venomous.  I  have  been  pretty 
low.  There's  no  use  trying  to  hide  it.  I  ought  to  con- 
fess it  humbly.  Why,  it  isn't  an  hour  since  I  included 
our  good  old  friend  Tom  Manly  in  my  evil  thoughts — 
suspected  him — think  of  it!  Think  how  weak  a  man 
must  be  when  he  will  wrong  a  lifelong  friend,  even  in 
thought.  Wonderful  Tom!  And  I  was  weak  enough 
to  have  wronged  others,  too,"  he  added,  thinking  of  the 
spoon  which  he  had  laid  beside  the  knife. 

"What  was  it  about  Tom  that  bothered  you,  Jerry?" 
she  asked,  suspecting  the  possible  need  of  confession  or 
explanation  on  her  part,  too. 


64  Unconventional  Joan 

"I  was  contemptible  enough  to  sneer,  to  say  why  does 
he  not  go  to  the  Front." 

"I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  why,  Jerry." 

"He  has  told  you  why?"  he  questioned,  puzzled, 
frankly  anxious. 

"No,  not  exactly,  but  I  think  I  know,  and  I  think  you, 
too,  ought  to — I  mean  do  you  think  you  would  like  to 
know,  Jerry?" 

"Really,  Joan,  it  does  not  matter.  I  love  Tom,  you 
know  that,  just  as  I  love  you,  just  as  the  three  of  us  love 
one  another." 

"But  I  think  he  loves  one  of  us  a  little  differently  from 
that — no,  I  don't  mean  that  he  actually  does,  but  that  he 
thinks  he  does,  he  says  he  does — "  she  hesitated,  wanting 
to  go  on  but  finding  it  hard. 

"Yes,  Joan?"  he  encouraged  her,  looking  out  of  the 
window,  far  away  over  the  roof-tops  and  back  into  the 
distance  to  the  Damascus  of  nineteen  hundred  years  ago, 
when  a  dazzling  light  from  Heaven  struck  a  presumptu- 
ous egotist,  Saul,  from  his  horse  and  made  the  egotist 
a  man. 

"He  said  lie  couldn't  go  until  I — he  said  he'd  go  to  the 
Front  the  moment  he  knew  he  could  come  back  to — he's 
been  having  a  battle  between  duty  and  love,  Jerry.  You 
know  what  that — no,  you  don't  know  what  that  means, 
do  you?" 

He  thought  he  did.  He  was  sure  that  he  did.  He 
had  presumed  that  she  knew  all  along  that  he  did.  He 
did  not  comprehend  that  she  had  put  it  so  precisely  to 
coax  him  to  contradict  her.  Mentally  the  contradiction 
formed  itself,  but  he  forced  back  the  words. 

"I  sympathize  with  Tom,"  he  said,  adding  to  himself, 


Unconventional  Joan  65 

"Chivalrous  Tom,  waiting  for  me,  deferring  to  me  like 
that ;  I'll  tell  him  so,  and  I  must  tell  her,  too,  right  away, 
just  how  she  can  settle  not  one  but  two  battles  between 
love  and  duty." 

"Joan,"  he  continued,  "I'll  tell  you,  as  one  of  your 
best  friends  what  I  think  you — " 

"Never!  Jerry,  never,  never — "  She  knew  what  he 
was  going  to  say  and  could  not  let  him  say  it.  "Never 
have  I  encouraged  nor  could  I  encourage  Tom  to — to — 
to  avoid  doing  his  duty.  You  surely  must  know  that  I 
could  not  do  that." 

She  feared  she  had  made  a  mistake  in  telling  him. 
She  was  sure  she  had  not  done  it  to  prompt  him.  She 
had  simply  felt  that  he  had  the  right  to  know.  But  it 
was  not  prompting  him.  On  the  contrary  it  was  losing 
him  to  her  at  the  very  instant  when  they  were  closer  to- 
gether than  they  had  ever  been  before.  She  could  not 
possibly  suffer  that. 

They  just  sat  there,  silent. 

The  bands  were  tightening  again  around  Jerry's  head. 
For  a  delicious  minute  of  exultation  over  Joan's  saving 
discovery,  he  had  relaxed,  only  to  find  himself  plunged 
back  into  the  unsolvable  ethical  question  of  his  right  to 
ask  her. 

"It  might  be  right,  provided  the  test  comes  out  satis- 
factorily," he  argued  with  himself,  "and  I  know  it  will. 
I  could  take  a  long  vacation  then,  and  try  to  learn  to  be 
less  wooden  and  more  companionable,"  he  persuaded 
himself,  as  his  emotions  leapt  to  his  devoted  companion 
with  unrestrained  violence.  The  blood  was  beating 
against  his  temples  faster  and  faster.  His  heart  was 
bursting  within  him.  It  weakened  him.  He  took  her 


66  Unconventional  Joan 

warm  hand  awkwardly  in  both  of  his  trembling  own. 

"I'm  not  worthy  of  you,  Joan.  I  mean  it.  There's 
no  humbug  in  saying  that — " 

She  pressed  her  fingers  against  his  lips  to  stop  him,  but 
he  gently  took  her  hand  away  and  would  not  be  stopped. 

"I  want  you,  Joan,  so  much,  so  much — that — that 
it's  almost  making  me  try  to  take  you  in  spite  of  having 
no  right.  But  taking  isn't  loving,  Joan.  Cave-men 
take,  and  barbarians  take,  and  some  civilized  men  take, 
too;  but  proof  of  love,  and  right  to  be  loved,  is  based 
on  sacrifice  alone.  Some  men  may  think  they  love  with- 
out making  any  sacrifice  to  prove  their  love,  but  that 
isn't  love.  It  is  what  is  called  by  the  basest  of  names. 
Other  men  may  think  they  will  make  the  sacrifice  when 
the  time  comes,  but  until  they  do  they  may  have  wanted — 
wanted  as  terribly  as  I  want  you,  Joan,  but  they  have 
not  loved,  they  have  merely  been  selfish,  just  as  I  am 
now,  and  they  have  no  more  right  to  say  they  love  those 
whom  they  take  than  I  have  to  say  that  I  love  you,  Joan, 
when  my  reason  frankly  shows  me  that  I  have  no  grounds 
on  which  to  prove  it,  because  I  have  never  done  a  single 
thing  for  you.  As  it  stands  at  present  I  am  a  disgrace 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world  to  you,  and  to  all  my  friends. 
And  that's  how  it  would  have  continued  to  stand  if  you 
had  not  brought  me  this  blessed  suggestion  to  solve  my 
problem,  and  that's  how  it  is  liable  to  remain  if  by  some 
mishap  the  test  is  unsuccessful.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
if  it  is  successful,  as  I  confidently  expect  it  will  be,  then — 
well,  that  will  be  a  starting  point  for  me,  Joan — it  will 
be  like  being  born  again — and — and — " 

He  called  most  fiercely  upon  that  strong  will  of  his,  so 
weakly  tottering,  to  stand  by  him  in  his  struggle  to  be 


Unconventional  Joan  67 

honourable,  and,  in  grievous  doubt  of  its  strength,  hur- 
ried to  outline  the  programme  to  which  he  knew  he  must 
adhere. 

"I'll  do  this  test,  at  once,  Joan,  and  just  as  soon  as  it 
is  done — I — I  would  like  to  talk  to  you  again — may  I  ? — 
in  the  morning,  after  you  have  sent  your  little  army  on 
its  way — and  to-night  I'll  just  stick  to  it  until  I  finish." 

Joan  sat  very  quiet  and  very  happy.  He  had  been 
holding  her  hands,  and  as  he  slowly  dropped  them  it 
seemed  to  him  like  parting  from  her. 

"I've  half  a  mind  to  walk  as  far  as  the  corner  with 
you,"  he  said.  "I'll  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air  and  then 
come  back." 

"Yes,  come  along,  Jerry." 

Not  the  real  reason,  he  very  well  knew,  and  so  did 
Joan,  but  she  abetted  his  intention  by  opening  the  door. 

Side  by  side  they  went  very  slowly  down  the  three 
long,  dark  flights  of  stairs,  Jerry  holding  her  arm.  Com- 
ing out  into  the  crisp  autumn  air,  the  bright  lights  il- 
luminating the  street,  he  thought  that  it  had  never  looked 
so  wonderful  before.  The  smile  on  his  haggard  counte- 
nance showed  how  closely  the  happiness  of  relief  can 
simulate  the  happiness  of  attainment — how  the  released 
prisoner,  in  the  mere  restoration  of  his  lost  freedom,  ex- 
periences something  of  the  bliss  of  the  man  who  has 
actually  achieved  the  aim  of  his  life. 

But  suddenly  an  advertising  poster  of  a  soldier  in 
khaki,  pointing  his  finger  at  him  and  saying  "You  are 
wanted,"  tauntingly  struck  him  full  between  the  eyes 
and  made  him  wince,  as  he  winced  night  after  night  on 
sight  of  it.  But  his  smile  came  back  with  doubled  in- 
tensity, as  he  pulled  himself  up,  squared  his  shoulders 


68  Unconventional  Joan 

and  almost  said  aloud  to  it:  "Old  chap,  I  am  going  to  be 
able  to  look  you  squarely  in  the  face  before  this  time 
tomorrow  night!" 

It  seemed  to  him  an  incredibly  short  time  before  he 
halted  at  the  corner  in  the  glare  of  Pogo's  great  electric 
sign  beckoning  him,  beckoning  everybody,  into  the  Mov- 
ing Picture  Palace. 

They  had  not  spoken  a  word. 

When  Jerry  purchased  the  six  o'clock  issue  of  the 
News  he  silently  gave  the  newsboy  an  extra  coin,  and  he 
was  conscious  of  an  inclination  to  call  every  newsboy  in 
sight  and  dole  out  largesse  to  them  all. 

Joan  was  thinking  how  supremely  happy  people  can 
sometimes  be  without  saying  a  single  word  to  each  other. 
But  she  broke  the  silence  first. 

"Mr.  Pogo  is  coming  to  dinner,  Jerry.  It  is  going  to 
be  a  really  nice  dinner.  Hadn't  you  better  change  your 
mind  and  come  along,  too?  Such  a  little  walk  as  you 
have  just  taken  is  not  enough  distraction." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her,  saying  nothing.  Some- 
thing was  glistening  on  her  lower  lids,  and  he  knew  her 
mouth  was  trembling.  He  was  conscious  of  wanting  to 
do  just  what  she  wanted  him  to  do,  right  there  at  the 
corner. 

At  the  corner ! 

Meeting  place  of  life's  currents.  Tarrying  place  for 
many.  Parting  place  for  others.  Turning  point  for  some. 

What  was  it  to  be  to  them — the  corner  in  their  lives  ? 

Their  corner. 

There  is  one  in  every  life. 

"Joan,"  he  murmured,  "I've  known  you  nearly  two 
years,  now,  haven't  I?" 


Unconventional  Joan  69 

"Yes,  Jerry." 

Silence  again.  He  was  worshipping  her  with  eyes  that 
bared  his  soul  to  all  the  world  passing  them  by  at  the 
corner — their  corner — the  corner  never  to  be  forgotten — 
the  corner  destined  to  become  so  famous  in  her  uncon- 
ventional career. 

Her  instinct  hinted  to  her  that  he  was  hesitating. 

"Say  it,  Jerry." 

"Having  known  you  so  long,  Joan,  I  was  thinking 
how  terrible  it  would  have  been  if  you  had  not  given  me 
this  chance  to — to — keep  knowing  you — how  unbearable 
it  would  have  been  for  me  to  have — to  have  had  to  stop 
knowing  you — " 

He  frightened  her.  Was  her  instinct  telling  her  that 
he  was  going  to  fail  with  the  test  ?  Had  she  been  build- 
ing a  castle  in  the  air?  What  was  this  dark  cloud  that 
his  words  were  dragging  between  her  and  her  happiness? 
Abruptly  she  stopped  him. 

"Jerry — take  me — please — to-night,"  she  pleaded. 

The  flame  shifted  from  his  heart  to  his  face  and  eyes. 

Irresistible — merciless— overwhelming   impulse ! 

"Play  fair,  you  failure — play  fair"  he  kept  repeating 
to  himself. 

Right  there  in  the  brilliant  rays  of  Pogo's  electric  sign 
he  could  hardly  restrain  himself  from  taking  her  beauti- 
ful little  form  into  his  arms. 

It  would  not  be  long,  he  promised  himself  on  oath — 
not  longer  than  this  blessed  night's  work  that  was  to 
bring  to  them  the  morning  of  their  lives.  His  arm  slipped 
tightly  round  her  own,  and  clasping  her  fingers  in  a  grip 
that  almost  bruised  them,  he  whispered,  breaking  the 
tenseness  that  was  holding  and  hurting  them  both: 


jo  Unconventional  Joan 

"Tomorrow,  Joan;  tomorrow  we're  going  to  muster 
out  your  little  army  of  pals  for  an  extended  furlough." 

Very  tenderly  he  started  her  on  her  way. 

She  left  him  standing  there,  watching  her,  after  making 
him  promise  to  take  half-an-hour's  diversion  in  Pogo's 
Picture  Palace  before  returning  to  the  loft. 

Half-way  down  South  Street  she  turned  to  look  back 
at  him,  and  found  that  he  had  started  to  cross,  but  had 
stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  on  his  way  over  to 
the  theatre,  and  stood  staring  at  his  copy  of  the  News. 

Taxicabs  and  cars  dashed  by,  narrowly  missing  him. 

Would  he  never  move? 

Was  he  going  to  be  killed  in  one  of  his  moments  of 
abstraction  right  before  her  eyes? 

And  then  just  as  she  could  restrain  herself  no  longer, 
and  was  about  to  shriek,  he  dodged  a  motor,  stepped  upon 
the  pavement  and  passed  into  the  theatre,  safe. 

It  was  morning  before  she  knew  what  it  was  in  Tom 
Manly's  paper  that  had  halted  Jerry  in  the  centre  of  con- 
gestion. 

IV 

Inside  the  theatre  Jerry  sank  into  the  only  vacant  seat, 
quite  close  to  the  screen  on  which  was  being  flashed  a 
series  of  war  pictures,  which  he  watched  with  unseeing 
eyes.  Mentally  he  was  absorbed  in  his  recollection  of  the 
article  in  the  News  modestly  stating  that  "the  editor, 
Thomas  Manly,  was  about  to  leave  direct  for  the  Front." 

So  Joan  had  made  Tom  do  his  duty — he  realized. 

And  Tom  was  doubtless  going  because  she  wanted  him 
to  do  so.  And  he  was  certainly  hoping  to  come  back  to 
her  and  find  her  pleased  with  what  he  would  do. 


Unconventional  Joan  71 

"That's  the  spirit!  That's  the  spirit  of  sacrifice! 
That's  got  the  right  ring  in  it.  Wonderful  Tom !" 

He  emphatically  shook  his  head  in  approval. 

"More  than  I  have  done!"  he  repeated  to  himself. 
"Would  it  be  more,  too,  even  if  I  should  be  successful 
with  my  test  to-night?" 

He  stiffened  in  his  seat. 

Tom  and  he  in  the  grip  of  their  contest! 

He  reached  for  his  hat. 

"Friendly  rivals!" 

His  impulse  was  to  rush  over  to  the  Neius  office  and 
shake  hands  with  his  lifelong  chum,  and  tell  him  in  words 
that  might  not  be  explicit,  but  which  Tom  would  under- 
stand, that  nothing,  absolutely  nothing  must  ever  change 
their  friendship.  Possibly  he  should  frankly  tell  Tom  how 
things  stood  between  Joan  and  himself,  contingent  upon 
his  success  with  his  test  to-night.  That  would  be  to  give 
Tom  an  even  break.  It  would  avoid  all  misunderstand- 
ings. Tom  would  then  be  the  first  to  congratulate  him 
in  the  morning  if  he  succeeded,  and  he  was  certain  to  suc- 
ceed. Yes,  he  would  do  that,  he  decided.  He  would 
stay  here  a  few  minutes  to  satisfy  Joan's  wishes,  and  then 
he  would  go  straight  to  Tom. 

Disinterestedly  he  watched  the  dreadful  film  of  war's 
horrors — the  horrors  into  which  Tom  was  about  to 
plunge;  dimly  and  yet  distinctly  enough  he  observed  the 
depressing  influence  upon  the  rows  of  drooping  figures, 
whose  silence  poorly  masked  the  misery  of  their  hearts. 
How  much  longer  could  these  poor  people  bear  up  under 
their  daily  increasing  strain  ?  They  were  on  the  verge  of 
madness,  all  of  them.  He  was  sure  of  it.  He  recognized 
the  symptoms  in  their  exclamations  of  horror.  If  any 


72  Unconventional  Joan 

man  could  understand,  was  it  not  he,  who  had  been  so 
nearly  mad  himself?  It  had  taken  a  miracle  of  help  to 
save  him.  His  body,  mind  and  heart  were  aching  still. 
This  was  but  a  temporary  abandonment  to  his  sense  of 
relief — this  respite  that  he  was  enjoying  at  the  moment. 

"God  help  them !  God  make  them  stronger  than  I  have 
been!"  he  silently  ejaculated. 

As  the  film  flickered  on  to  its  heartrending  conclusion, 
a  distinct  nervousness  came  over  the  audience.  Some- 
thing akin  to  a  flutter  of  emotion  passed  quickly  through 
the  house.  It  was  like  the  ominous  bubbling  of  over- 
heated lava  at  the  volcano's  brim  before  it  boils  over  and 
finds  release.  People  hurriedly  rose  in  various  parts  of 
the  theatre.  Subdued  voices  became  louder,  louder.  To- 
wards the  rear  there  was  a  distinct  commotion.  In  front 
of  him  two  little  girls  began  to  cry.  He  leaned  over  to 
shield  them  from  a  burly  fellow  crushing  past  them. 

"Lights — turn  on  the  lights,"  a  woman  shrieked  hys- 
terically. 

Where  were  the  men  whose  job  it  was  to  turn  on  those 
lights? 

The  people  were  beating  their  way  out  of  the  place, 
each  for  himself. 

The  crowd  had  suddenly  gone  stark  mad.  It  was  iri 
an  uncontrollable  panic. 

Stampeded  off  his  feet,  Jerry  was  caught  up  and  cata- 
pulted through  a  set  of  broken  doors  into  a  vestibule 
jammed  with  shouting  and  fighting  men  and  women,  who 
quickly  squeezed  him  out  into  a  street  packed  with  mani- 
acs, shouting  and  bellowing  at  the  utmost  pitch  of  their 
voices,  and  jostling  one  another  in  unrestrained  con- 
fusion, as  they  swayed  round  newsboys  who  were  rapidly 


Unconventional  Joan  73 

selling  extra  editions  of  the  newspapers  to  purchasers 
who,  in  their  excitement,  left  their  coins  with  the  vendors 
without  waiting  for  change. 

Jerry  grabbed  a  copy  of  the  News  and  consternation 
propped  his  eyelids  wide  apart  as  he  read  his  sentence  to 
eternal  obloquy  in  the  enormous  black  head-line: 

"WAR  ENDS." 


"It's  a  lie!"  he  screamed,  suffocating,  grasping  at  any 
hope,  as  he  remembered  the  German  operator  holding  the 
wireless  circuits  open  for  news  from  General  Head- 
quarters an  hour  ago.  Oh,  if  he  had  only  continued  to 
"listen-in"  instead  of  despairingly  tearing  the  wireless 
receivers  from  his  ears! 

"It's  a  German  lie,"  he  screeched  above  the  babel,  hold- 
ing a  man  by  the  shoulders  and  shouting  in  his  face. 

"Can't  you  see  it's  a  German  lie?"  he  repeated,  build- 
ing on  that  his  only  hope  of  acquittal  of  the  stigma  of 
having  failed  to  produce  his  invention  before  the  end  of 
the  war. 

"What's  all  your  anxiety  to  make  it  untrue,  Englin?" 
the  fellow  roared  back  at  him.  "Are  you  sorry  it's  over?" 

The  hilarious  crowd  had  no  patience  with  the  dis- 
tracted figure  furiously  beating  the  air  with  his  hysterical 
protests  as  he  was  pushed  along  by  one  angry  shove  after 
another  in  his  breathless  haste  to  reach  the  loft  and  learn 
the  truth  from  his  faithful  wireless. 

At  the  vestibule  to  the  staircase  his  over-wrought  body 
faltered,  tormented  by  his  maddened  mind,  as  he  came 
face  to  face  again  with  the  khaki-clad  soldier  on  the  bill- 
poster mockingly  pointing  at  him  his  finger  of  scorn. 


74  Unconventional  Joan 

Stumbling  up  the  stairway,  he  kicked  in  the  door  that 
he  could  not  wait  to  open,  and  as  it  swung  back  clear  of 
him  on  its  hinges  it  seemed  to  strike  him  squarely  on  the 
head,  so  terrible  was  the  beating  pain  that  leapt  back  into 
his  temples  and  threatened  to  burst  his  skull. 

Wildly  strapping  his  head-gear  close  to  his  ears  he 
crouched  there,  shaking,  appalled. 

It  was  not  a  lie !  The  Germans  had  actually  asked  for 
an  armistice!  The  news  of  their  surrender  was  true! 
The  armistice  announcement  was  possibly  premature;  it 
might  require  a  day  or  two  to  be  confirmed  in  detail,  but 
it  was  obviously  true,  or  about  to  be  true.  The  war  was 
over !  And  he  was  damned ! 

Another  day,  another  hour  and  he  would  have  proved 
to  the  people,  what  the  Government  already  believed — 
that  his  struggles  in  the  loft  were  more  valuable  to  the 
nation  than  would  have  been  his  small  service,  even  the 
sacrifice  of  his  life,  at  the  Front.  But  now  he  was  sud- 
denly stripped  of  all  chance  of  public  rehabilitation,  and 
that  in  the  very  hour  of  his  success. 

He  was  a  proven  coward,  and  a  failure  in  his  country- 
men's eyes. 

He  writhed  in  agony.  The  door  seemed  to  fall  upon 
his  aching  head  again. 

Forever,  if  he  let  himself  live,  he  must  be  a  stranger 
to  his  own,  to  Joan,  to  Tom — to  Tom  who  would  not 
have  to  go  to  the  Front  now — and  who  deserved  her. 

Crash  went  the  door  upon  his  throbbing  head  again 
and  again! 

From  a  drawer  he  weakly  took  the  War  Department's 
letter  commissioning  him  to  continue  quietly  with  his 
work — encouraging  him,  persuading  him  that  it  was  to 


Unconventional  Joan  75 

the  best  interests  of  the  nation  that  he  should  do  so.  Irony 
of  fate!  Unmerited  credential!  Unjustified  tribute! 
Useless  alibi !  How  it  mocked  him ! 

He  wildly  ripped  the  evidence  of  his  loyalty  into 
tatters,  strewed  the  bits  about  him  on  the  floor,  and 
stamped  upon  them. 

In  its  place  he  would  leave  a  message  to  Joan  and  Tom. 

"Joan,"  he  wrote,  trying  with  trembling  ringers  to 
steady  the  hand  that  held  the  pen,  "Joan  and  Tom,  my 
dear  pals,  it  has  worked  out  for  the  best,  and  nobody 
wishes  you  greater  happiness  than  your  old  chum,  Jerry." 

And  with  that  final  duty  done,  the  workshop  of  his 
labours,  hopes  and  dreams,  silent  as  the  tomb,  empty  now 
of  all  that  had  been  precious  to  him  in  life,  palled  upon 
him.  He  would  leave  it,  for  ever. 

Would  that  door  never  stop  banging? 

He  looked  at  it,  but  it  was  motionless.  Suddenly,  as 
he  looked,  it  began  to  slap  back  and  forth  at  a  terrific 
rate,  beating  him  mercilessly  on  the  head  each  time  it 
moved. 

He  stumbled,  tottering,  to  his  feet,  in  an  effort  to  go 
over  and  stop  it — body  exhausted,  will  weakening,  mind 
crumbling  to  ruins! 

Throwing  out  his  arms,  as  he  rose,  he  saw  the  door 
come  forward  to  meet  him,  felt  it  crash  against  his  throb- 
bing temples  again  and  slam  him  headlong  down  the 
stairs,  hurtling  along  from  step  to  step  until  he  reached 
the  bottom,  where  Keating  waited  for  him  and  kicked 
him  in  the  face. 


CHAPTER  IV 


ON  her  way  home  Joan  encountered  Conny  and  Girda 
within  a  few  minutes  after  watching  Jerry  enter 
Pogo's  Picture  Palace.  She  had  not  seen  either  since 
the  opening  of  college. 

"Why  Girda — Conny!"  exclaimed  Joan. 

"Turn  right  around  the  other  way  and  come  down 
town  with  us,"  greeted  Girda. 

"Yes,  do,"  added  Conny,  "we're  going  for  some  eats 
and  then  to  Pogo's." 

"No,  you  two  do  the  turning  and  come  home  to  dinner 
with  me,"  insisted  Joan,  so  happy  about  Jerry  that  she 
felt  like  entertaining  the  whole  world. 

"Nix  on  Church  stuff  and  minister's  homes,"  protested 
Conny  with  erudite  flippancy.  "You're  all  right,  but 
nobody  can  get  any  fun  out  of  eating  with  saints." 

"Margaret's  halo  might  not  be  on  straight  and  it  would 
worry  me,"  mourned  Girda. 

"Pogo  is  having  dinner  with  us,"  coaxed  Joan. 

"Pogo  at  your  home — at  a  minister's  home!"  shrilled 
Girda. 

"Yes,  and  Peggy  Pogo,  too.  You'll  like  Peggy, 
Conny,"  urged  Joan,  "Girda  won't  mind — " 

"Peggy  and  Girda  at  a  minister's  table,"  incredulously 
ejaculated  Conny.  "It's  worth  seeing.  I'm  game.  Sure 
we'll  go,  won't  we,  Girda?" 

"I'll  stick  it  for  a  round  with  old  Pogo,"  agreed  Girda, 
visualizing  her  subjugation  of  the  theatre-magnate  and 
her  features  pictured  upon  one  of  his  programmes. 

"Wait  a  moment,  Joan,"  muttered  Conny.  "Professor 

76, 


Unconventional  Joan  77 

Trueby — Looney  Larry — is  living  with  you  now,  since 
his  breakdown,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes,  but  he  is  harmless." 

Conny  hesitated.  Harmless!  Sure,  he  was  always 
harmless,  but  a  nuisance.  Memories  of  Larry's  lecture 
to  him  in  the  tea-shop  were  still  fresh  in  his  mind. 

"Say,  Joan,  I  can't  go  that  old  nut,"  Conny  demurred. 

"I'll  seat  you  next  to  Peggy,  Conny." 

"I'll  go,"  promptly  responded  Conny,  with  a  quizzical 
look  at  Girda. 

ii 

"This  is  the  house  of  God,"  appropriately  greeted  the 
Rector's  parrot,  as  the  trio  entered  the  hall — the  only  bit 
of  wisdom  that  this  plumed  graduate  from  a  monastery 
knew  how  to  utter — purposely  remindful  to  the  progres- 
sive Rector  of  the  "blighting  limitations"  of  some  other 
products  of  the  seminary. 

"There's  Joan,  now,  Larry.    Hello,  Joan !" 

Margaret's  voice  welcomed  Joan  as,  with  her  extra 
measure  of  happiness  brimming  her  little  heart,  she  en- 
tered the  dining-room  of  the  Reverend  Matthew  Holden's 
home ;  her  home,  too. 

"Hello  everybody!  Good  evening,  Daddy  Holden." 
A  relation  almost  filial  and  paternal  had  sprung  up 
between  her  and  the  Rector.  'Lo  Margaret,  'lo  Larry — " 

The  Rector  intervened  and  introduced  her  to  his  guests. 

"Mr.  Pogo,  Miss  Pogo,  this  is  Joan,  our  Joan;  Mr. 
Victor  Pogo  and  Miss  Peggy  Pogo,  Joan — " 

"My  compliments  to  the  star  of  the  house,"  belched 
pudgy  Pogo,  noiselessly  clapping  his  hands  like  one  of 
his  audience,  "and  quite  a  nice  little  dramatic  entrance — " 


78  Unconventional  Joan 

"Timely,  wasn't  it?"  suggested  Larry. 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,"  said  perky  Peggy,  gulping 
down  an  unusually  copious  measure  of  envy. 

"The  pleasure  is  mine,  Miss  Pogo,"  politely  responded 
Joan,  and  added,  "I  have  some  guests  to  present,  too." 

"Yes,  look  what  the  cat  brought  in,"  burlesqued  irre- 
pressible Girda  in  the  back-ground,  as  she  pulled  Conny 
forward  by  the  ear. 

Mortifying  memories  of  roisterous  college  days  and 
impudent  college  ways! 

"Pert  product  of  modern  education,"  alliteratively 
reflected  Larry. 

The  Rector  greeted  Joan's  guests  in  a  kindly,  ironical 
manner. 

Pogo  and  Peggy  snubbed  them. 

Margaret  smiled,  and  Larry  grinned  at  them. 

"We  have  been  missing  you,  little  lady,"  tactfully  in- 
terposed the  Rector,  diverting  attention  from  Conny  and 
Girda  in  order  to  subdue  them  at  the  commencement 
of  their  raillery.  He  beamed  on  Joan  in  his  relief  at  her 
arrival. 

"Joan  you  never  looked  more  wonderful,"  added  Mar- 
garet, who  loved  and  admired  Joan  almost  to  the  point 
of  worship,  and  who  had  divined  her  father's  strategy. 

"Miss  Joan — asking  your  pardon,"  put  in  Larry,  of 
late  the  Rector's  faithful  sexton,  butler  and  all-round 
handy  man  at  home,  since  his  mental  collapse;  "it  was 
a  little  late — our  esteemed  guests,  Mr.  and  Miss  Pogo, 
have  early  evening  engagements — so  we  started  dinner 
without  you — wishing  to  be  timely — " 

"It's  quite  all  right,  Larry.  Margaret,  I'll  get  even 
with  you  for  that  compliment.  Never  worry  about  me, 


Unconventional  Joan  79 

Daddy  Holden,  it's  a  longer  walk,  you  know,  since  the 
rectory  was  moved  away  from  the  Church." 

She  went  about  getting  Conny  and  Girda  satisfactorily 
seated  at  table. 

This  involved  altering  the  seating  arrangements  as 
made  by  Larry,  who  looked  on,  somewhat  solicitous 
about  the  possibility  of  losing  his  right-hand  neigh- 
bour, Peggy,  in  whom  he  was  sociologically  very  much 
interested,  and  whom  he  had  advantageously  placed  next 
to  himself  in  the  same  designing  way  that  he  had  sat  in 
front  of  Conny  when  he  lectured  him  in  the  tea-shop. 

At  the  head  of  the  table  sat  the  elderly  Rector,  clean- 
shaven, ascetic,  dressed,  as  he  himself  put  it,  "like  a  living 
human  being  instead  of  like  an  embalmed  corpse."  He 
broadmindedly  disliked  and  criticized  what  he  called 
"clerical  livery."  It  "dulled  his  point  of  contact"  with 
his  fellow  men.  He  wanted  no  such  "conventionalities" 
in  his  life,  and  apropos  of  this  policy,  he  remarked  at  the 
beginning  of  the  meal: 

"This  is  a  purely  informal  dinner.  I  don't  believe  in 
formalities.  Please  disregard  my  calling  and  be  perfectly 
natural."  It  was  refreshingly  hospitable,  and  evidenced 
his  diplomatic  tendency  to  compromise  with  irresistible 
influences. 

Churlish  Pogo  bulged  out  on  the  Rector's  right.  Frail 
Margaret  drooped  at  her  father's  left.  Larry,  in  the 
intervals  of  his  serving  duties,  had  been  sitting  at  the 
other  end  of  the  table,  ramblingly  contributing  pathetic 
platitudes  to  the  conversation.  Joan  indulgently  let  him 
remain  there,  where  he  commented  during  the  meal  on 
the  "timeliness"  of  this,  that  and  the  other  thing,  confided 
various  explanations  of  his  malady  to  Peggy,  and  took 


8o  Unconventional  Joan 

reminding  little  kicks  under  the  table  from  Joan  when- 
ever he  threatened  to  transgress  the  proprieties. 

Joan  placed  Girda  on  Pogo's  right,  and  next  to  herself. 
That  was  just  where  she  wanted  to  be — in  the  shadow 
of  the  moving-picture  magnate,  so  to  speak. 

Directly  across  the  table  opposite  Girda  Joan  seated 
Conny,  on  Peggy's  right,  between  her  and  Margaret. 
That  pleased  Conny,  too.  He  began  forthwith  to  give 
his  undivided  attention  to  impish  Peggy,  watching  the 
effect  of  his  behaviour  on  Girda  out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye. 

Girda  simultaneously  commenced  to  vamp  old  Pogo. 

Larry  enviously  and  successfully  engaged  Peggy's  in- 
terest to  the  complete  exclusion  of  Conny.  Luxuriating 
in  the  seeming  adulation  extended  to  her  from  either 
side,  Peggy  pretended,  mischievously,  to  prefer  her  older 
admirer  and  ignore  the  younger.  Conny  took  it  to  heart 
and  turned  crestfallen  to  Margaret.  For  him  the  even- 
ing was  over  before  it  started. 

Pogo  irritatingly  rejected  Girda's  advances.  For  her, 
too,  the  curtain  was  quickly  rung  down.  "It's  a  rotten 
show,"  she  decided  and  turned  to  Joan. 

Margaret  and  Joan  were  now  compulsorily  popular, 
while  the  Rector  attempted  to  evangelize  disinterested 
Pogo  and  Larry  lectured  to  unimpressionable  Peggy. 

The  humour  of  the  situation  forced  Joan  to  laugh. 
Girda  and  Conny  readily  took  their  fun  by  joining  in  the 
laughter,  but  Conny  deliberately  laughed  direct  at  Girda, 
to  tantalize  her  in  her  discomfiture,  and  succeeded  beyond 
his  expectations. 

"Ain't  we  got  fun?"  he  tauntingly  giggled  at  her. 

Girda  answered  with  a  well  directed  kick  under  the 


Unconventional  Joan  Si 

table,  which  connected  unexpectedly  with  Conny's  knee. 

"Wowzo!"  howled  Conny,  as  loud  as  he  dared,  and 
let  go  an  answering  kick  in  Girda's  direction. 

It  was  Pogo's  knee,  and  not  Girda's,  that  stopped 
Conny's  ill-aimed  effort. 

"Good  Gawd !"  bawled  Pogo,  "what  in  hell  is  that  ?" 

"This  is  the  house  of  God,"  echoed  the  parrot  from  the 
hall. 

Girda  and  Conny  shrieked  laughter. 

Joan  had  to  laugh,  too. 

Peggy's  set  features  never  altered. 

The  Rector's  features  registered  tolerant  surrender  to 
his  pupils. 

"This  'purely  informal'  dinner  is  becoming  'purely  in- 
famous/ "  whispered  Larry  to  Joan. 

"There's  a  bull  under  the  table,"  protested  Pogo.  He 
looked  across  at  delicate  Margaret,  doubting  her  ability 
to  prod  him  with  such  force. 

"The  show  is  brightening  up,"  Girda  consoled  herself, 
determined  to  have  her  fun  in  some  sort  of  way. 

To  Conny,  the  incident  naturally  suggested  making  a 
mark  out  of  Pogo  for  merriment's  sake,  as  he  had  so 
often  impertinently  done  with  professors  at  college.  His 
conduct  prompted  Larry  to  whisper  to  Joan  that  "coarse- 
ness is  the  conventional  course  at  college." 

Conny  began  abstractedly,  as  it  were,  to  deposit  his 
ashes  in  Pogo's  butter-plate.  Time  after  time  he  reached 
over,  as  if  absentmindedly,  for  the  ash-tray,  and  sprinkled 
his  ashes  on  Pogo's  butter-plate. 

Girda's  distended  cheeks  threatened  an  explosion. 

Pogo  paid  no  attention,  but  failing  in  this  way  to  check 
Conny's  contributions,  he  calmly  lit  a  cigar,  deposited 


82  Unconventional  Joan 

some  of  his  own  ashes  in  the  well-filled  butter-plate, 
and  accommodatingly  pushed  it  in  Conny's  direction, 
towards  the  middle  of  the  table,  icily  remarking: 

"We  can  share  this  together." 

Girda's  swoollen  cheeks  collapsed. 

"Thank  you,"  stolidly  acknowledged  checkmated 
Conny,  considerably  cooled  by  Pogo's  chilling  move.  But 
a  moment  later  he  half-turned  towards  Margaret,  and, 
as  if  preoccupied  with  his  conversation  with  her,  inad- 
vertently reached  over  toward  Pogo,  and  dropped  not 
only  his  ashes,  but  his  cigarette  as  well,  into  Pogo's 
coffee. 

Down  came  Pogo's  cigar  towards  the  cup,  as  if 
mechanically  to  follow  suit,  with  Pogo  similarly  feign- 
ing distraction — and  deliberately  burned  the  top  of 
Conny's  hand. 

Girda  blew  up  and  burst ! 

"Bulls  and  bees,"  blurted  Conny.  "I'd  rather  be  poked 
than  stung." 

"It  will  be  a  good  show  before  we  are  through  with 
it,"  spluttered  Girda,  convulsed  with  laughter. 

And  so,  the  "purely  informal"  dinner  went  tolerantly 
on,  while  the  Rector  fretfully  pondered,  Margaret  ner- 
vously trembled,  Peggy  furtively  yawned,  Conny  teas- 
ingly  joked,  Girda  provokingly  jeered,  Pogo  magnilo- 
quently  boasted,  Joan  regretfully  smiled,  Larry  cynically 
censured,  and  the  parrot  occasionally  ejaculated: 

"This  is  the  house  of  God." 

in 

When  the  Reverend  Matthew  Holden  entered  upon 
his  duties  as  Rector  and  found  that  the  parishioners  had 


Unconventional  Joan  83 

moved  their  homes  from  the  vicinity  of  Trinity  Church, 
at  the  end  of  Newspaper  Row,  to  make  way  for  business, 
he  moved  on  after  them  and  into  their  midst.  That  was 
characteristic  of  him,,  and  of  the  times. 

''Under  modern  conditions,  a  devoted  pastor,"  he  used 
to  say,  "must,  to  a  considerable  extent,  follow  rather 
than  lead  his  flock." 

This  spirit  of  tactful  conformity  to  progress  pervaded 
his  earnestly  prepared  sermons.  On  one  occasion,  he 
had  summed  up  his  policy  from  the  pulpit  thus: 

"If  I  cannot  bring  you  to  Religion  I  must  carry  Re- 
ligion to  you.  If  I  cannot  hold  you  within  the  shadow 
of  the  Church,  I  must  move  myself,  and  eventually  the 
Church,  into  your  midst.  The  'ifs'  and  conventions  of 
material  advancement  I  cannot  control,  but  I  can,  and 
God  protecting  me,  I  will,  defer  to  them  sufficiently  to 
enable  me  to  keep  Him  and  His  Commandments  near 
to  your  hearts." 

This  principle  of  progression  had  been  first  accepted 
and  put  into  execution  by  the  Rector  when  he  resigned 
his  professorship  at  the  college,  where  Joan,  and  Jerry 
and  Tom  had  studied  under  him,  in  order  to  reach,  follow 
and  influence  through  the  ministry,  a  greater  number  of 
souls  than  college  limitations  provided.  He  applied  the 
same  principle  of  adaptability  to  the  removal  of  influence 
from  the  Church  at  the  end  of  Newspaper  Row,  by 
aggressively  pursuing  the  removers  with  his  efforts  to 
influence  them  in  the  way  of  God.  This  practical  pro- 
cedure was  the  result  of  his  most  deliberate  consideration 
of  the  duties  of  his  calling,  and  he  relied  for  his  conso- 
lation upon  his  efforts  to  keep  close  to  his  flock,  to  bring 
back  the  wanderers,  to  restrain  the  wilful. 


84  Unconventional  Joan 

Pogo  fell  into  the  last  category.  The  Rector  recog- 
nized and  admitted  the  theatre-owner's  moral  competition 
with  him.  Instead  of  making  faces  at  Pogo  he  deter- 
mined to  make  Pogo  think  so  highly  of  him  and  of  his 
efforts,  as  to  render  the  theatre-owner  incapable  of  the 
wish  to  offend  him  by  making  the  building  at  the  lower 
end  of  Newspaper  Row  more  influential  for  the  Devil 
than  the  building  at  the  upper  end  of  Newspaper  Row 
was  struggling  to  be  influential  for  God.  So  Pogo  and 
Peggy  had  been  invited  into  the  bosom  of  his  family,  and 
had  condescended  to  come  and  stay  for  an  hour. 

Next  to  his  devotion  to  the  duties  of  his  calling,  the 
Rector's  extraordinary  attachment  to  his  talented  but 
delicate  daughter  Margaret,  was  an  inspiration  to  those 
who  knew  him  intimately.  Margaret  was  now  nineteen, 
and  her  father,  in  spite  of  his  weak  heart  and  the  strain 
of  his  long  fight  for  his  principles,  had,  so  far,  been 
blessed  with  eighteen  additional  years  of  delightful  com- 
radeship with  her  since  the  death  of  his  wife  when  he 
was  forty. 

Margaret  was  one  year  older  than  Joan,  taller,  with 
noticeably  regular  and  refined  features,  pale  of  com- 
plexion, sometimes  excessively  so  when  the  pain  in  her 
left  side  betrayed  her  inheritance  of  her  parent's  weak 
heart.  Her  slight  hold  on  life  was  perilously  jeopar- 
dized by  her  selfless  devotion  to  him.  Most  of  her  con- 
versation included  some  reference  to  her  father,  such  as, 
"My  father  read  this  book,"  or  "My  father  was  say- 
ing— "  This  characteristic  of  her  conversation  was  pity- 
ingly noticed  by  Peggy,  who  swayed  her  parent  by  the 
mesmeric  pseudonym  of  "Pop." 

Margaret  never  showed  to  better  advantage  than  when 


Unconventional  Joan  85 

seated  beside  her  father,  as  at  dinner.  No  guest  in  his 
house  had  ever  deprived  her  of  her  seat  at  his  left.  To 
watch  the  lights  in  her  eyes,  as  they  followed  his  conver- 
sation, anticipated  his  wants,  applauded  his  efforts,  sym- 
pathized with  his  hurts,  was  to  witness  the  not  unusual 
phenomenon  of  a  devoted  daughter  assuming  many  of 
the  functions  of  her  lost  parent  in  her  surviving  parent's 
life — a  relation  usually  characterized  by  such  reciprocity 
of  ideal  love  as  only  the  intensest  mutual  sympathy  and 
admiration  promotes.  When  her  father  was  preaching, 
Margaret  sat  facing  him,  revealing  to  him  in  her  eyes  the 
influence  of  his  words.  She  was,  in  everything,  his  guide. 
He  depended  upon  her.  They  were  inseparable — so  com- 
pletely so,  that  the  parishioners  used  to  wonder  if  one 
would  be  able  to  survive  the  other. 

IV 

Larry's  usually  laughable  or  pathetic  inanities  brought 
him  very  close  to  the  hearts  of  his  listeners.  People 
loved  him  through  pity  for  his  mental  sufferings.  When- 
ever Larry  was  presented  to  strangers  it  was  the  Rector's 
custom  to  explain  to  the  guests,  as  soon  as  an  occasion 
arose  through  Larry's  leaving  the  room,  that  in  former 
days,  as  Lawrence  Trueby,  M.A.,  LL.D.,  he  had  been 
a  Professor  of  Sociology  at  Trinity  College,  but  suffered 
a  nervous  breakdown,  with  mental  consequences,  as  a 
result  of  overwork  on  a  fanatical  thesis  oddly  entitled, 
"Conventionalism  and  its  Perpetrators" — "since  which 
time,"  the  Rector  always  added,  "he  has  been  our  guest, 
acting  as  sexton  of  the  Church,  butler  at  home  and  gen- 
eral helping  hand,  without  ever  giving  any  more  aggra- 
vated evidences  of  his  malady  than  a  harmless  tendency 


86  Unconventional  Joan 

to  diagnose  events  in  terms  of  their  propriety  or  impro- 
priety, and  to  pass  judgment  upon  them  as  to  whether 
they  were  'timely'  or  'untimely.'  ' 

Invariably  following  these  explanations  of  his  eccen- 
tricity by  the  Rector,  Larry,  having  cannily  remained 
outside  the  room  long  enough  to  let  his  history  be  re- 
vealed, would  return  to  his  seat  at  the  foot  of  the  table 
and  test  the  effect  of  the  publication  of  his  peculiarities 
by  a  confidential  conversation  with  the  guest  at  his  right, 
who  on  this  occasion  happened  to  be  Peggy. 

"Did  he  tell  you?"  he  enquired  cautiously,  leaning 
down  stealthily  towards  Peggy,  and  receiving  a  swift 
kick  under  the  table  from  Joan  that  made  him  straighten 
up  soberly  and  remain  so,  until  she  had  been  drawn  into 
the  conversation  at  the  head  of  the  table,  when  he  leaned 
over  again  towards  Peggy,  holding  his  open  right  hand 
over  his  mouth  to  direct  his  hushed  voice  solely  in  her 
direction. 

"You  know,  I'm  a  bit  silly,"  he  confided  pathetically. 
"Yes,  I've  read  a  great  deal  about  my  malady.  You  see, 
it's  a  sickness.  I  have  a  certain  vacancy  of  mind,  a  sort 
of  poverty  of  intellect,  you  might  call  it,  a  closed  percep- 
tion, but  folks  just  call  me  'poor  head,'  'feeble  minded,' 
a  'bit  touched,'  and  the  boys  say  I  have  'apartments  to 
let.'  " 

Then  he  removed  his  hand  and  made  a  business  of 
eating  unconcernedly,  while  stealing  furtive  glances  out 
of  the  corner  of  his  eye  at  Peggy  to  see  how  his  confi- 
dences had  impressed  her.  And  when  the  conversation 
at  the  head  of  the  table  became  sufficiently  animated 
again  to  warrant  it,  up  went  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  and 
he  continued: 


Unconventional  Joan  87 

"Did  that  surprise  you?  You  wouldn't  believe  it, 
would  you?  But  it's  a  fact.  I'm  not  right.  I'm  un- 
hinged, flighty,  daft;  a  bit  of  a  ninny,"  touching  his  fore- 
head, "upper  story  missing;  sort  of  a  bungalow  affair. 
But  it's  more  or  less  common,  you  know.  Lots  of  people 
are  narrow-minded,  and  that's  much  worse.  I'm  only 
weak-minded.  What's  your  trouble?  Have  you  read 
up  on  it?  We're  both  a  bit  foolish,  of  course,  like  every- 
body else,  but  maybe  you're  a  bigger  fool  than  I  am. 
You're  abnormal,  you  know.  You  have  'convention- 
alitis.'  Oh  yes,  you  have!  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you 
how  I  found  it  out?  Well,  you  know,  I'm  pretty  sharp, 
and  when  I  first  came  into  the  room  where  you  were  sit- 
ting, before  I  had  even  been  introduced  to  you,  and  the 
moment  I  first  looked  at  you,  do  you  know  what  you  did, 
as  a  matter  of  habit  ?  No ;  but  you'll  remember,  when  I 
tell  you.  The  instant  you  saw  me  glance  at  you  you 
tried  to  pull  your  skirt  down  lower,  even  though  it 
wouldn't  go  any  lower.  You  see  what  that  indicated? 
That  gave  your  mind  away.  That  showed  your  low 
habit  of  mind.  You  took  it  for  granted  that  my  first 
thought  about  you  would  be  your  legs.  You  do  that  as 
a  matter  of  habit  every  time  a  fellow  looks  at  you.  It 
shows  him  what  you  think  of  his  state  of  mind.  It  shows 
what  you  abnormally  suspect  about  every  man's  state  of 
mind.  It's  stock  stuff.  It's  the  vogue.  It's  'conven- 
tionalitis-.'  You  all  do  it  alike."  He  contemptuously 
puckered  up  his  lips  and  blew  through  them,  adding, 
"You  go  with  the  wind — you're  just  a  ripple." 

Joan  could  not  have  heard  Larry's  whispered  denunci- 
ation, but  Peggy's  convulsed  countenance  must  have 
spoken  volumes  of  resentment  because  the  kick  that  sud- 


88  Unconventional  Joan 

denly  landed  on  Larry's  shin-bone  was  savage  enough  to 
halt  him  in  the  midst  of  his  condemnations  and  make  him 
expostulate: 

"Untimely,  I  say  most  untimely." 


As  Peggy  preceded  her  ponderous  parent  into  the 
library,  head  rigidly  erect,  eyes  coldly  uncommunicative, 
lips  tightly  set,  Larry,  looking  after  her  from  behind  the 
portieres  in  the  dining-room,  mentally  amplified  his  tart 
diagnosis  of  her. 

Observing  her  to  greater  advantage  away  from  the 
table,  he  decided  that  she  fitted  accurately  the  simile  in 
his  fatal  thesis  that  depicted  "a  world  full  of  ultra-im- 
pressionable damsels  resembling  in  their  susceptibilities 
the  wind-tossed  ripples  of  the  sea,  superficially  fascinat- 
ing, momentarily  captivating,  matched  by  lacily  fringed 
thousands  on  every  side,  frothy,  foamy,  effervescent, 
bubbling  and  gushing  with  nothingness,  now  here,  now 
there,  shortly  nowhere." 

Yes,  Peggy  was  a  "ripple,"  he  decided. 

Casual  inspection  of  her  immobile  and  vacuous  fea- 
tures suggested  to  Larry  dumbness.  Closer  scrutiny  and 
observation  indicated  to  him  that  the  dumbness  was  a 
studied  mask  of  one  who  had  already  seen  enough,  and 
heard  enough,  and  experienced  enough,  to  be  able  to 
make  a  callous  countenance  pass  for  innocence  undefiled. 
Watching  her  attitude  towards  the  relative  whom  she 
dubbed  "Pop,"  revealed  to  him  the  hard  and  solitary  will 
of  a  child,  and  a  child's  petulance  and  vanity,  spoiled, 
contemptuous,  wilful. 

"Brought  to  her  present  nineteenth  or  twentieth  year 


Unconventional  Joan  89 

of  diabolical  wisdom  in  surroundings  of  inescapable  vul- 
garity like  those  maintained  by  her  sordid  parent  and  his 
profession,"  he  pedantically  quoted,  "she  is  hypersensi- 
tive to  sensuous  impressions  induced  through  the  medium 
of  her  tawdry  prettiness,  which  finds  its  most  effective 
setting  curled  up  in  a  corner  of  a  couch,  as  she  is  at 
present. 

"A  twilight  nymph,  by  dint  of  many  sounding  kisses 
with  lips  carmined  and  sweetly  profane,"  he  mentally 
penned  her,  "overworking  her  hellish  power  to  drive 
young  men  wild,  discarding  old  loves  and  dead  beliefs  as 
a  brisk  young  snake  sloughs  off  his  dry  skin  for  a  new 
one,  possessed  of  a  past  probably  already  monotonous 
in  its  promiscuity,  and  sopping  what  conscience  remains 
to  her  with  a  philosophy  culled  from  newspapers,  whose 
sordidness  has  so  deadened  her  womanly  instinct  as  to 
make  her  willing  to  believe  it  to  be  true  that  the  'beautiful 
must  be  damned/ ' 

VI 

Victor  Pogo  and  his  offspring  were  uncomfortably  out 
of  place  when  led  into  the  Rector's  library.  Pogo's 
"penchant,"  as  he  elegantly  put  it,  was  "moving  pictures, 
not  books."  He  "had  never  had  much  to  do  with 
books,"  he  disinterestedly  replied,  when  invited  to  ex- 
amine his  host's  bookcases,  filled  with  the  collected  trea- 
sures of  a  lifetime,  and  taking  a  book  presented  to  him 
for  examination,  he  let  its  pages  rush  like  so  many  cogs 
beneath  his  fat  thumb,  as  if  testing  its  revolutions  per 
minute.  He  then  mechanically  shoved  it  back  into  its 
place  on  the  shelf,  upside  down,  without  even  knowing 
its  title. 


90  Unconventional  Joan 

Depositing  his  huge  bulk  in  the  most  comfortable  chair 
in  the  room,  with  his  back  to  the  books,  he  lit  a  cigar, 
stuck  it  in  his  flabby  mouth,  and  blew  out  his  condem- 
nation of  literature,  with  his  clouds  of  smoke,  in  a  com- 
manding and  decisive  way. 

"Books  are  passe,"  he  challengingly  growled,  not  a 
little  satisfied  with  his  epithet,  and  thinking  of  the  popu- 
larity of  his  end  of  Newspaper  Row,  as  compared  with 
churches  and  book  shops. 

"But  they  shouldn't  be,"  protested  the  Rector  sooth- 
ingly, intent  upon  accomplishing  the  purpose  for  which 
he  had  invited  the  theatre-owner  and  his  daughter  to  his 
home. 

"That  doesn't  matter,"  retorted  Pogo,  rather  sulkily. 
"The  fact  is,  people  nowadays  don't  want  books,  won't 
read  them,  can't  be  coaxed  or  forced  to  go  and  get  them 
and  read  them.  They  want  pictures,  and  they  can't  be 
stopped  wanting  pictures.  I  am  not  interested  in  what 
should  be.  I  am  interested  in  what  is." 

It  was  a  very  businesslike  summing  up  of  the  situation. 
It  was  a  paraphrased  censure  and  conviction  of  the 
Rector  and  his  resultless  efforts.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
said: 

"Nobody  goes  to  your  old  Church.  Nobody,  to  speak 
of,  buys  any  books  from  your  old  book  store.  And  you 
can't  make  them  do  it  either,  because  they  prefer  to  come 
down  to  my  moving  pictures." 

That  was  how  it  sounded  to  the  Rector,  and  the  truth 
of  it  hurt.  But  whenever  the  discouraging  facts  of 
material  advancement  raised  their  barrier  to  his  advance- 
ment of  ethical  enlightenment,  the  Rector's  principle  of 
adaptation  came  to  his  aid  and  prompted  the  particular 


Unconventional  Joan  91 

strategy  he  was  to  use  to  circumvent  the  enemy  rather 
than  waste  time  and  energy  in  hopeless  direct  attack. 
It  came  abundantly  to  his  rescue  at  this  crisis  in  the  con- 
versation, as  he  thankfully  realized,  in  the  form  of  an 
inspiration  that  promised  him  a  greatly  needed  victory 
over  Victor  Pogo,  with  that  gentleman's  own  weapons! 

The  possibilities  opened  up  by  his  revelation  suddenly 
engrossed  him  so  completely  as  to  make  him  long  to 
tackle  them  at  once,  and  he  was  as  willing  to  let  Pogo 
take  his  leave  as  that  much-bored  magnate  was  to  go. 
So,  with  a  meaningless  exchange  of  good  wishes,  they 
parted,  the  Rector  believing  he  had  profited  tremendously 
through  his  wonderful  inspiration  occasioned  by  Pogo's 
visit,  and  Pogo  absolutely  certain  that  he  had  profited, 
because  busy  men  of  his  type  never  voluntarily  give  away 
two  hours  of  their  time,  except  for  a  liberal  cash  equiv- 
alent; and  the  promptness  with  which  the  theatre-owner 
had  accepted  the  Rector's  invitation  would  have  indi- 
cated to  anyone  other  than  the  Reverend  Matthew  Holden 
that  Victor  Pogo  had  a  very  definite  financial  object  in 
view  in  visiting  him,  which  would  eventually  materialize. 
No  man  in  business  can  afford  to  have  acquaintances 
other  than  those  of  monetary  value  to  him.  Such  is  the 
scope  of  modern  friendship. 

"Give  that  to  your  servant,"  Peggy  rasped  contemptu- 
ously to  Margaret,  as  she  stamped  out. 

Pogo  planned  to  use  Larry,  so  he  had  brought  a  gift 
suitable  to  his  needs  as  sexton.  But  the  overwhelming 
intensity  of  Larry's  embarrassment  of  Peggy  had  pre- 
vented her  from  offering  it  before.  She  would  have 
taken  it  back  with  her  now,  instead  of  giving  it  to  him, 
but  it  suddenly  suggested  itself  as  a  means  of  expressing 


92  Unconventional  Joan 

rather    emphatically    her    complete    contempt    for    him. 

"Tell  him  it  is  even  more  appropriate  for  him  than  I 
expected  it  to  be,"  she  added.  "Tell  him  to  lie  down  and 
die  in  it!" 

Larry  listened  with  a  leer  on  his  face,  as  he  peeped  out 
from  behind  the  curtains.  Pogo  caught  sight  of  him, 
and  attempted  to  tone  down  Peggy's  insult  by  a  diplo- 
matic explanation: 

"We  thought  our  little  remembrance  might  be  service- 
able to  you  for  resting  purposes,  in  between  times,  at  your 
quarters  in  the  Church." 

Larry  grinningly  examined  the  remembrance  when 
Pogo,  Peggy,  Conny  and  Girda  had  gone.  In  its  way  it 
certainly  represented  the  best  that  mechanical  ingenuity 
could  contrive.  Outwardly,  when  shut  up,  it  resembled 
a  small  travelling  case.  He  could  pick  it  up  in  the  even- 
ing and  carry  it  down  to  the  Church  sacristy  without 
anybody  suspecting  what  it  was.  Opened  up,  it  revealed 
a  comfortable  little  folding  bed. 

"Another  of  Civilization's  dexterous  contributions  to 
the  delightful  art  of  loafing,"  contemptuously  commented 
Larry. 

'  Take  up  thy  bed,  and  walk/  "  humorously  quoted 
the  Rector  from  the  Scriptures,  laughing  goodnaturedly. 

'  'Lie  down  and  die  in  it/  are  my  orders,"  quoted 
Larry  in  derision. 

VII 

The  Rector  was  radiant,  as  he  faced  Margaret  and 
Joan,  after  the  departure  of  their  guests,  and  outlined 
his  plan. 

"The  old  way  of  carrying  religion  to  the  people  was 


Unconventional  Joan  93 

effective  in  the  olden  days,  suitable  to  the  people,  and  the 
disciples  naturally  followed  the  way  with  which  people 
were  familiar,"  he  explained,  "but  the  new  world,  grow- 
ing newer  every  day,  is  not  the  old  world,  and  will  have 
none  of  the  old  world's  methods.  People  who  today  fly 
through  the  air,  play  chess  with  the  ether,  make  clouds 
in  Europe  speak  to  clouds  in  America  with  tongues  of 
fire — always  performing  some  new  impossibility — refuse 
to  be  interested  in  chariots,  camels  or  ox-carts.  They 
are  done  with  that  sort  of  thing.  They  are  out  to  get 
what  at  present  they  lack — to  use  what  hitherto  they 
have  never  had;  and  the  first-class  prophet  of  today  is 
the  servant  of  God,  broadminded  enough  to  be  able  to 
pick  out  seeming  innovations  for  transmitting  Religion, 
and  bold  enough  to  predict  that  it  will  come  to  pass  that 
these  innovations  will  succeed  where  archaic  methods 
fail." 

He  continued  with  intense  and  sincere  enthusiasm: 
"Because  a  thing  has  been,  therefore  it  must  always 
be,  represents  the  mentality  of  most  clergymen.  The 
clerical  veneration  for  uniformity,  the  passion  of  the 
clergy  for  the  stereotyped,  their  tragic  inelasticity  of 
mind,  have  eaten  out  the  heart  of  Religion  and  accom- 
plished the  bankruptcy  of  our  churches. 

"And  so  I  have  come,  in  this  age  of  changes,  to  be 
sympathetic  towards  the  minister  of  God's  Word  who 
struggles,  in  a  modern  way,  to  have  his  parishioners  un- 
derstand that  Religion  is  no  killjoy  affair,  no  spoil-sport 
business,  and  decorously,  even  if  somewhat  radically, 
seeks  to  have  God  enter  their  hearts  by  their  own  en- 
trances, through  dignified  conviviality,  even  through 
moving  pictures,  if  necessary,  or  through  dances — " 


94  Unconventional  Joan 

"But  can't  the  people  get  all  that  sort  of  thing  outside 
the  Church  and  get  it  better?"  Joan  interrupted.  "Must 
a  minister  be  a  movie-maniac,  and  a  jazz-artist,  and  a 
nicotine-fiend,  and  even  a  drinker,  just  because  other 
people  have  these  crazes?  Is  it  necessary  for  him  to 
submit  and  surrender  to  every  influence  he  meets — to 
pOgo — to  Conny — to  Girda — to — " 

"We  must  make  Religion  attractive  to  such  people," 
solicitously  replied  the  Rector,  "especially  to  types  like 
Conny  and  Girda.  They  are  the  coming  fathers  and 
mothers  of  our  nation." 

"I  like  Conny  and  Girda,"  Joan  started  to  reply. 

"I  don't,"  interrupted  Margaret. 

" — And  I  can  easily  appreciate  their  possibilities,"  con- 
tinued Joan,  "but  I  am  thinking  of  what  I  once  heard 
Jerry  say." 

What  Jerry  said  was  gospel  to  her.  Absorbed  as  she 
was  with  her  thoughts  of  him,  her  mind  naturally  re- 
verted to  him. 

"Jerry  said  that  'a  woman  functions  normally  and  best 
by  influence,  rather  than  by  direct  action.'  He  said 
that  as  a  sort  of  friendly  warning  against  women  usurp- 
ing the  aggressive  prerogative  of  men.  It  meant  a  great 
deal  to  me.  It  meant  that  women  can  dominate  men — 
actually  do  the  deeds  of  men — without  being  mannish. 
I  think  ministers  can  also  dominate  the  actions  of  vulgar 
people  without  dropping  down  to  their  vulgar  level.  They 
can  inspire  them.  For  a  woman  or  a  minister  to  become 
over-aggressive  is  to  be  a  failure." 

The  little  mother  of  the  tea-shop!     Dominant! 

"How  do  you  account  for  such  satisfied  authoritative- 
ness  in  her?"  Tom  had  one  day  asked  over  his  tea. 


Unconventional  Joan 

"Instinct,"  explained  Jerry,  inviting  a  repetition  or 
Girda's  caustic  commentary  upon  his  extensive  (?) 
knowledge  of  women.  "Mysterious,  dependable  instinct, 
so  highly  developed  in  some  women." 

"The  education  of  experience,"  alliteratively  suggested 
Larry.  "Travel,  death,  sorrow,  solitude,  introspection — 
it  may  be  fatal." 

The  Rector  made  no  reply  to  Joan. 

"Do  you  really  think  a  minister  must  submit  to  con- 
vention, to  the  accepted  channels  of  progression,  to  the 
so-called  'social  controls'?"  Joan  feelingly  pressed  him. 

"Unfortunately,  or  rather  surprisingly,  yes,  to  a  certain 
extent;  but  not  exaggeratedly,  in  the  way  I  fear  you 
indicate,  and  of  course  not  wrongly,"  replied  the  Rector, 
with  conviction.  "Exaggerated  opposition  to  convention 
is  sometimes  more  fatal  than  unconditional  surrender 
to  it,"  he  continued,  looking  in  the  direction  of  Larry, 
who  had  just  left  the  room.  "The  penalty  for  oddness 
is  dementia." 

It  was  just  about  this  moment,  while  the  Rector  was 
uttering  these  words,  that  Jerry  Englin  crashed  beneath 
the  ruins  of  his  isolated  efforts  to  conquer  and  control 
the  arch  propagators  of  precedent,  with  Keating's  leering 
face  mocking  him  in  his  delirium. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  eccentric  in  anything,"  retorted 
Joan,  unconvinced,  "and  I  certainly  am  not  inviting  any 
catastrophe  like  that  which  has  come  to  poor  Larry,  but 
I  can't  capitulate  to  followers  and  worshippers  of  what's 
usually  done  or  what's  usually  not  done — I  mean  this 
manufactured  uniformity  that  so  continuously  clashes 
with  a  person's  best  instincts — you  can  call  it  convention, 
or  custom,  or  fashion,  or  vogue,  or  the  social  code,  or 


96  Unconventional  Joan 

just  plain  mimicry,  it  doesn't  matter — if  that's  sanity 
then  I  am  an  embryo  lunatic,  like  Larry." 

Margaret,  watching  her  father's  eyes  during  Joan's 
hot  little  challenge,  observed  him  react  sympathetically 
to  her  ultimatum.  She  could  see  that  there  was  a  conflict 
going  on  in  his  mind.  He  had  never  been  impulsive. 
He  might  be  expected  to  consider  every  move  before 
making  it.  Finally  he  said: 

"You  are  both  right  and  wrong,  Joan,  and  I  also  am 
both  right  and  wrong.  It's  a  terrible  problem — my 
seemingly  unsolvable  problem — God  help  me.  But  I 
have  been  thinking  that  I  am  going  to  try  to  beat  an 
enemy  of  the  Church's  influences  with  his  own  weapons, 
and,  as  an  experiment  at  least,  I  am  going  through  with 
it.  Mr.  Pogo  draws  my  flock  to  his  theatre  by  moving- 
pictures;  I  am  going  to  draw  them  back  to  the  Church 
by  the  same  means.  It  will  be  an  illuminating  study. 
It  may  be  a  success.  I  pray  that  it  will  be.  Let  me  see. 
This  is  Friday.  On  Sunday  I  will  announce  from  the 
pulpit  that  on  the  following  evening  there  will  be  free 
moving-pictures  in  the  Church.  We  will  exhibit  the 
most  uplifting  film  that  we  can  procure,  and,  in  God's 
interest,  we  will  analyze  the  good  and  the  evil  in  it,  in 
an  effort  to  appeal  to  the  heart  through  the  eye,  as  well 
as  through  the  ear.  On  second  thoughts,  I  will  give  the 
announcement  to  the  Press  by  telephone  immediately,  so 
that  the  morning  papers  will  prepare  my  people  to  come 
back  to  me  instead  of  going  to  Mr.  Pogo." 

There  was  a  decisive  finality  in  his  diction  which  he 
promptly  reinforced  and  emphasized  by  going  to  the 
telephone  and  trying  to  call  up  the  editorial  rooms  of  the 
News.  Failing  to  get  an  answer,  he  tried  the  Record. 


Unconventional  Joan  97 

Failing  with  the  Record,  he  again  tried  the  Ncii's.  Back 
and  forth  several  times  for  several  minutes,  he  un- 
successfully tried  each  newspaper,  wondering  if  their 
employees  had  all  suddenly  gone  on  a  vacation.  Even- 
tually he  got  both  of  them,  and  in  a  dignified  way  com- 
municated to  them  his  announcement.  A  minute  later 
he  knew  why  he  had  failed  to  get  them  promptly. 

The  deafening  shrieks  of  Pogo's  vulgar  motor-siren 
split  the  air. 

"Mr.  Pogo  has  forgotten  something,"  exclaimed  Mar- 
garet. 

The  theatre-magnate's  rakish  and  extravagantly  long 
automobile  was  drawing  up  to  the  kerb.  Pogo  had 
driven  direct  from  the  parsonage  to  both  newspapers, 
down  town,  where  he  left  certain  important  announce- 
ments, learned  about  the  impending  Armistice,  and  was 
now  driving  madly  around  to  the  homes  of  prominent 
friends,  doing  his  part  to  fill  their  hearts  with  some  of 
the  down-town  frenzy,  and  calculating,  in  an  advertising 
way,  on  an  increase  of  their  good  will  in  return  for 
his  thoughtfulness.  Incidentally  he  was  having  a  riot- 
ously good  night  of  it,  violating  the  speed  laws  and  wak- 
ing the  dead  with  his  obscene  horn. 

"Read  that,  Holden,"  he  roared,  as  Peggy  tossed  two 
newspapers  at  the  trio  who  had  started  down  from  the 
doorstep  to  the  car  at  the  kerb.  A  moment  later  he  was 
on  his  noisy  way  again. 

Larry  led  the  group  back  into  the  light  with  the  news- 
papers, and  opened  up  the  front  pages  with  their  gigan- 
tic headlines: 

"WAR  ENDS." 

"Thanks  be  to  God,"  the  Rector  murmured  reverently. 


98  Unconventional  Joan 

"Oh— oh— oh— oh,"  ejaculated  Margaret,  clutching 
nervously  at  her  weak  heart. 

"Most  untimely,  overshadowing  our  morning  an- 
nouncement," commented  Larry. 

And  Joan,  speechless,  turned  deathly  white. 

VIII 

The  morning  papers,  overcrowded  though  they  were 
with  the  world's  greatest  sensation,  found  ample  room 
for  the  local  sensation,  which  they  created  out  of  the 
two  announcements  given  to  them  by  Pogo  and  the 
Rector,  unknown  to  each  other. 

The  morning  Record  and  News  published  identical 
notices,  obviously  penned  by  the  same  hand,  to  the  effect 
that  "The  Reverend  Matthew  Holden,  Rector  of  Trinity 
Church,  at  the  north  end  of  Newspaper  Row,  had  as  his 
dinner  guest  last  evening  Mr.  Victor  Pogo,  proprietor 
of  'Pogo's  Picture  Palace'  at  the  south  end  of  Newspaper 
Row.  The  Rector  and  the  popular  theatre-owner  spent 
a  very  pleasant  hour  together  going  over  Mr.  Pogo's 
splendid  educational  work,  in  which  the  Rector  is  keenly 
interested." 

Pogo's  secret  intention  in  accepting  the  invitation  to 
dinner  was  out! 

In  consternation  and  astonishment,  the  Rector  heatedly 
denounced  as  the  work  of  the  devil  this  misuse  of  his 
hospitality  for  the  purpose  of  advertising  the  competitive 
influence  at  the  other  end  of  the  street,  by  claiming  his 
sanction  of  it,  and  he  promised  Mr.  Pogo  a  shot  in  the 
afternoon  papers  which  would  open  his  eyes  to  the  fact 
that  the  Lord  is  no  mean  competitor.  God  helping  him, 
he  would  make  the  Church's  competitive  use  of  moving- 


Unconventional  Joan  99 

pictures  drive  the  devil  out  of  business  at  Pogo's  end  of 
Newspaper  Row. 

Simultaneously  with  Pogo's  announcement,  the  morn- 
ing Record  and  News  published  similar,  but  not  identical 
notices,  telling  the  public  that  Trinity  Church  would  ex- 
hibit Free  Moving-Pictures.  The  Record  emphasized 
the  impending  "competition"  of  the  Church  with  Pogo's 
Picture  Palace. 

The  Rector's  announcement  was  "great  stuff"  for  the 
reporters,  and  they  waited  upon  him  willing  to  give  him 
all  the  free  space  that  he  wanted.  He  had  "started  some- 
thing," and  nobody  understood  that  more  intimately  than 
Pogo.  When  that  potentate  billiously  read  his  morn- 
ing papers,  and  perceived  how  effectively  his  antagonist's 
publicity-move  checkmated  his  own,  and  calculated  a 
probable  shrinkage  in  his  shekel-bag,  he  hit  the  breakfast 
table  a  rap  that  made  the  sugar  jump  out  of  the  bowl. 

"I'll  show  these  papers  that  their  free  publicity  belongs 
to  me,"  he  howled.  "Who  pays  their  enormous  advertis- 
ing bills,  I  should  like  to  know?  Not  a  minister,  who 
would  put  them  out  of  business  if  he  could.  I'll  show 
this  preacher  chap  that  he  has  taken  on  a  heavyweight 
when  he  goes  up  against  an  insider  with  the  influential 
business  connections  of  Victor  Pogo." 

The  war  was  on ! 

The  Rector's  afternoon  return  volley  appeared  only  in 
the  News,  and  inconspicuously  enough  to  suggest  that 
this  paper  had  been  more  or  less  successfully  approached 
on  Pogo's  behalf.  The  notice  stated  that  "the  Rector 
of  Trinity  Church  had  determined  to  make  Monday 
night's  first  production  of  moving-pictures  so  successful 
that  succeeding  presentations  would  become  the  most 


ioo  Unconventional  Joan 

popular  in  the  city,  and  in  order  to  rally  the  young  folks 
around  the  Church's  effort  it  had  been  decided  to  hold 
a  dance  in  the  Church  basement  on  Monday  night,  fol- 
lowing the  pictures." 

"That  means  letting  'em  in  free,  and  giving  'em  a 
premium  for  coming,"  angrily  commented  Pogo  when 
he  read  it.  "I'll  stop  Holden  and  I'll  stop  the  Nnvs." 

The  Record's  omission  of  the  Rector's  afternoon  notice, 
coupled  with  a  brief  editorial  on  the  "Impropriety  of 
Church  Movies,"  showed  that  this  paper  had  been  quite 
satisfactorily  "approached"  on:  Pogo'si  behalf,  and  a 
spread-eagle  advertisement  of  the  Picture  Palace,  on 
an  inside  page,  confirmed  this  impression.  In  between 
the  lines  of  the  advertisement  and  the  editorial  was  a 
poorly  concealed  intimation  that  the  Record  was  spoiling 
for  a  fight  with  the  News  on  the  merits  of  movies  in  the 
Church,  not  because  the  Record  suffered  any  scruples 
about  encouraging  an  impropriety,  but  candidly  because 
it  was  good  newspaper  policy  to  decry  anything  that  in- 
terfered with  the  money-making  activities  of  the  interests 
which  paid  them  tribute. 

To  Tom  Manly,  Keating's  editorial,  professionally  in- 
terpreted, said  this: 

"I  have  the  jump  on  you !  I  am  an  older  and  there- 
fore a  wiser  newspaper  man  than  you  are.  I  have  just 
shown  you  that  by  siding  in  with  our  financial  supporters 
against  this  Church  business  before  you  are  even  awake. 
You  are  out  of  step  with  the  interests.  I  am  standing 
by  them.  Quit  your  support  of  this  Church  business 
and  you  admit  I  am  right.  Keep  it  up  and  I'll  fight  you 
to  a  finish  on  it.  I'll  ruin  you  with  your  supporters.  I 
dare  you  to  fight." 


Unconventional  Joan  101 

Was  this  little  additional  mention  which  Tom  Manly 
had  given  to  the  Rector's  project — not  because  he 
favoured  it  but  from  fear  of  offending  Joan  if  he  re- 
fused it — was  this  bit  of  free  publicity  going  to  preci- 
pitate one  of  the  usual  cat-and-dog  fights  between  rival 
newspapers  ? 

Would  the  News  and  Record  straightway  start  to 
call  each  other  nasty  names,  scold  each  other  like  children, 
thrust  their  spites  upon  their  readers  without  giving  them 
an  inkling  of  the  real  reason  for  their  quarrel,  and  by 
hideous  repetition  intensify  public  interest  in  the  Rector's 
venture,  already  more  important  locally  than  the  signing 
of  the  Armistice? 

The  decision  lay  with  Tom  Manly. 

Early  on  Saturday  afternoon  he  went  to  Englin's 
laboratory  to  beg  Joan  to  persuade  the  Rector  to  abandon 
his  project. 


CHAPTER    V 


JOAN  left  the  house  on  Saturday  morning  to  go  to 
the  loft,  striving  piteously  to  stifle  her  misgivings, 
in  her  most  optimistic  manner,  by  forced  little  ejacula- 
tions expressing  her  determination  to  be  patient  in  the 
face  of  whatever  might  have  been  Jerry's  failure  with 
his  test.  She  refused  to  let  the  chilling  autumn  rain  dull 
her  usual  brightness.  She  sharply  rebuked  her  grave 
dread  of  how  the  Armistice  might  have  affected  Jerry, 
by  repeating: 

"How  could  anybody  be  anything  but  happy  on  a 
morning  blessed  with  such  wonderful  news !" 

The  lightened  faces  of  pedestrians  helped  her  in 
her  battle.  At  "the  corner"  a  greeting  yelp  from  the 
"sooner"  brought  the  wet  and  bedraggled  first  corps  of 
her  army  into  line.  As  always,  it  warmed  her  heart 
to  reflect  how  easy  it  is  to  make  happiness  for  oneself 
by  making  it  for  others. 

"Paregoric,  don't  you  know  enough  to  keep  out  of  the 
wet  ?  You  fellows  have  messed  this  stairway  shamefully 
this  morning,"  she  protested  to  her  full  battalion  dashing 
up  the  steps  of  the  loft  with  muddy  feet.  Reaching  the 
top,  the  forces  swept  through  the  broken  and  open  door 
into  the  outer  office. 

"So  Jerry  has  opened  the  door  and  is  waiting  to  help 
me  'ration  the  garrison'  as  he  promised,"  she  realized,  as 
she  hurried  in  after  her  hungry  companions. 

"Where's  your  superior  officer?"  she  demanded,  as  she 
reached  the  entrance,  knowing  very  well  that  he  was  hid- 
ing behind  the  open  door  of  the  inner  room. 

102 


Unconventional  Joan  103 

"Jerry,"  she  called,  and  a  hound  answered  with  his 
dismal  howl,  supposing  she  meant  him. 

"Jerry!" 

No  answer. 

"He  has  gone  out  for  rolls  or  cream,"  she  decided. 
"He  will  be  back  soon." 

She  crossed  to  the  window  and  looked  out  over 
the  fire-escape  at  the  countless  figures,  many  of  them 
drenched  through,  scurrying  along  in  the  rain. 

"Jerry  will  get  wet,"  she  worried. 

Then  she  set  about  heating  the  water  for  tea,  making 
the  army  protestingly  wait  for  Jerry's  return,  and  when 
she  prepared  the  table  she  placed  the  spoon  beside  the 
knife,  both  his  and  hers. 

This  was  her  happy  betrothal  morn. 

"I  just  knew  he  had  been  here  before  me,  and  gone 
out,"  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  as  she  saw  his  last  even- 
ing's copy  of  the  News  still  unfiled.  There  were  two 
copies,  the  six  o'clock  edition,  and  the  later  extra  edition, 
published  half  an  hour  afterwards  with  the  Armistice 
headlines.  Filing  them  away  for  him,  she  noticed  in 
the  six  o'clock  edition  the  account  of  Tom  Manly's  pro- 
jected departure  for  the  Front. 

"Tom!"  she  exclaimed,  in  admiration. 

It  sent  a  thrill  of  great  happiness  through  her.  It 
made  her  feel  very  proud  of  him. 

"He  might  not  have  done  it  if  I  had  not  been  firm 
with  him.  Tom  did  it  for  me.  .  .  .  Strange,  that  I  did 
not  see  that  notice  in  the  later  edition  last  night !" 

She  looked  at  the  later  edition.     No,  it  was  not  there. 

But,  of  course,  there  was  no  need  to  print  it  after  the 
war  was  over.  Tom  would  not  have  to  go,  now. 


104  Unconventional  Joan 

She  was  quite  sure,  she  thought,  that  this  was  purely 
a  matter-of-fact  reflection  and  that  there  was  no  feeling 
in  it  whatsoever. 

All  her  happiness  was  coming  to  her  on  one  morning, 
she  discovered. 

Happy,  happy  day ! 


A  moment  later  she  found  Jerry's  note — 

Unutterably  brutal  blow! 

Felling  her  with  a  fatal  scar ! 

From  the  height  of  joy  to  the  depths  of  misery  and 
dread ! 

Down — aghast — breathlessly  down — in  a  heap! 

The  violence  of  the  descent  dropped  her,  helpless,  in 
a  faint. 

Oblivion,  nature's  temporary  solace  to  tormented 
womanhood,  mercifully  embraced  her. 

And  her  befriended  animals,  with  mute  reverence, 
waited  quietly  watching,  for  not  even  an  animal  can  look 
unmoved  upon  a  woman's  suffering.  It  is  what  has  many 
a  time  moved  beasts  to  submission,  men  to  fury,  and 
nations  to  war. 

When  the  cool  air  of  the  unheated  room  finally  brought 
her  back  to  her  senses,  and  her  bruised  mind  rose  again  to 
grapple  with  this  monstrous  invasion  of  her  happiness, 
the  blear-eyed,  shaggy  mongrel  whom  she  called  "Pare- 
goric" was  soothingly  licking  the  hand  that  had  so  regu- 
larly provided  food,  and  for  this  sympathy  her  first  act 
was  to  pat  the  dumb  but  devoted  creature  upon  the  head. 

For  a  long  time  she  could  not  control  herself.  Press- 
ing her  temples  with  both  hands,  she  repeated  like  a  child: 

"He  will  come  back  soon.     He  will  come  back  soon." 


Unconventional  Joan  105 

With  measureless  yearning,  she  repeated  his  name 
again  and  again,  nervously  stretching  out  her  arms  to  his 
chair,  to  his  motors,  to  his  coils,  as  if  to  find  him  there, 
whence  she  had  never  known  him  to  be  missing.  To  lose 
him,  never  to  see  him  again,  was  unthinkable! 

"He  will  come  back  soon." 

She  knew  that  she  could  not  go  on  as  she  should  with- 
out him.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  sensed  the 
limitations  of  mortal  independence.  Something  vitally 
identified  with  the  normal  trend  of  her  existence  had  been 
sundered,  like  a  rudder  torn  from  a  tossing  ship. 

The  intense  anguish  of  her  loss — of  what  he  had  meant 
to  her — measured  the  depths  of  her  love  of  him.  Her 
long  and  close  association  with  him  flashed  through  her 
memory.  She  saw  him  beside  her  at  school,  on  their 
walks,  at  their  work  in  the  laboratory.  She  heard  his 
slow  and  deliberating  voice,  watched  his  skilful  hands 
manipulating  his  switches  and  coils,  felt  the  influence  of 
his  serious  personality.  He  seemed  to  her  a  hundred 
times  more  earnest  and  lovable,  and  when  she  realized 
that  all  of  this,  that  had  been  a  part  of  her,  and  so  fixed 
in  her  heart,  was  gone — a  pain  pierced  her  breast  so 
sharply  that  she  wanted  to  beat  her  fists  against  it  until 
it  too  had  gone  and  taken  her  breath  with  it. 

Strive  as  she  would,  she  failed  in  her  efforts  to  think 
calmly  about  searching  for  him.  Gradually  she  decided 
that  he  would  not  want  her  to  do  so.  But  neither  had  he 
wanted  her  to  ask  him  to  take  her  before  he  made  his  test, 
and  perhaps  she  should  have  forced  her  will  upon  him. 
Yet  it  did  not  seem  natural  to  her  to  do  what  her  instinct 
told  her  he  did  not  want  her  to  do. 

For  an  hour  or  more  she  kept  telephoning  the  land- 


106  Unconventional  Joan 

lady  at  his  lodgings,  to  which  he  had  never  returned. 

Thinking  of  his  experimental  test  made  her  wonder  if 
he  had  failed  at  it  and  gone  because  he  failed,  or  if  he  had 
gone  because  the  war  ended  before  he  succeeded  with  it, 
or  if  he  had  gone  for  both  reasons — because  of  the  sudden 
ending  of  the  war  and  because  he  had  failed.  She  would 
see.  Investigation  revealed  that  he  had  not  even  started 
his  test.  Her  memorandum  lay  untouched  upon  his  table. 

He  had  been  overtaken  by  the  end  of  the  war  before 
even  making  the  test,  she  decided. 

That  gave  her  her  cue.  She  would  try  to  make  the 
tests  herself,  and  he  would  come  back. 

But  the  thought  of  attempting  to  carry  on  his  work 
brought  her  up  sharply  face  to  face  with  the  stern  reali- 
ties of  her  situation. 

There  could  be  no  income  for  her  in  the  meantime,  she 
disinterestedly  calculated,  with  Jerry  gone  and  his  inven- 
tion unfinished.  Of  course  there  were  his  other  inven- 
tions which  he  had  turned  over  to  the  Government,  for 
which,  however,  recompense  would  necessarily  be  delayed 
by  war's  exactions.  She  could  not  subsist  indefinitely, 
she  recognized,  particularly  if  she  had  to  pay  the  labora- 
tory rent.  She  would  have  to  close  it  up,  eventually,  if  he 
did  not  return ;  but  she  was  sure  he  would  return,  and  she 
would  keep  the  workshop  going  as  long  as  she  was  able 
financially  to  do  so,  though  that  could  not  be  for  very 
long. 

"I  know  he  must  return,  because  he  needs  me,"  she 
comforted  herself,  instinct  rather  than  conceit  prompting 
her  to  say  so.  It  was  as  much  a  confession  of  her 
dependence  upon  him  as  it  was  a  declaration  of  his  de- 
pendence upon  her. 


Unconventional  Joan  107 

On  his  desk  lay  his  diary,  open  at  his  last  entry. 

The  diary  of  his  fanciful  analyses  of  women.  Women ! 
— whose  characteristics  and  reactions  to  fixed  conditions 
apparently  interested  him  analytically  like  his  scientific 
examinations  of  chemical  and  physical  and  electrical 
phenomena. 

The  diary  of  his  thoughts  of  Joan  that  he  had  never 
felt  justified  in  revealing  to  her. 

Like  a  legacy  to  her — like  a  parting  message: 

"Abnormal  women  paradoxically  profess  their  self- 
sufficiency.  Notoriety  is  their  reward.  They  glitter  on 
our  bill-boards  and  in  our  newspaper  columns.  Normal 
women  instinctively  express  themselves  through  their  be- 
loved, by  inspiration  and  encouragement.  His  success 
and  prominence  are  their  aim.  They  cloister  themselves 
in  the  homes  of  our  illustrious  statesmen  and  captains  of 
industry.  The  nation  knows  them  only  by  reflection, 
through  the  accomplishments  of  their  loved  ones.  It  re- 
quires a  catastrophe  to  the  instrument  of  their  influence 
to  bring  them  to  the  front  and  force  them  to  assume  his 
place,  although  there  have  been  occasions  when,  in  so  do- 
ing, they  have  not  only  re-established  him  but  won  to  him 
and  to  his  efforts  more  followers  than  he  could  have  won 
himself. 

"Such  a  woman  I  have  known — Joan! 

"God  helping  me,  I  will  merit  her. 

"Meriting  her,  I  could  face  the  whole  world  and  con- 
quer it  with  the  inspiration  which  she  would  give  me. 

"Failing,  God  give  me  strength  to  go  from  her,  never 
to  return. 

"And  if  she  should  care  and  miss  me,  God  give  her 
strength  to  be  and  remain  true  to  that  wonderful  instinct 


io8  Unconventional  Joan 

of  hers — true  to  that  alone  which  it  is  a  good  woman's 
stupendous  privilege  to  be —  a  woman." 

Man's  adoration  of  the  mother  and  guardian  of  men! 

His  legacy  to  her. 

Like  an  admonition  and  a  warning  and  a  prophecy ! 

So  like  her  own  brave  little  exhortation  to  the  Rector 
to  be  and  remain  a  minister. 

Seeming  to  counsel  her  not  to  try  to  carry  on  his  work. 

Shattering  her  hope  of  his  return  by  its  reminder  of 
the  strength  of  his  will. 

"Never  to  return,"  she  repeated  in  despair,  and  feebly 
tried  to  make  it  untrue  by  sobbing,  "he  must  return." 

"Yelp — yelp,"  whiningly  supplicated  one  of  the  unfed 
dogs. 

"Paregoric,  suppose  there  isn't  enough  to  eat  around 
here,  will  you  and  your  gang  find  somebody  else  to  take 
care  of  you?"  she  enquired,  with  mock  seriousness,  mak- 
ing a  heroic  attempt  to  be  happy,  as  she  started  to  feed  her 
hungry  cohort. 

Paregoric,  Pickles,  Carbureter,  Powder  Puff,  Crepe  de 
Chine,  Hookworm,  Ice  Cream  Soda,  Sour  Stomach,  Small 
Change,  Tonsolitis  and  Caruso  barked  a  very  vociferous 
protest  which  plainly  demanded: 

"When  do  we  eat  ?" 

When  fed  her  friends  left  her — left  her  alone  with  all 
that  remained  to  her — memory — and  the  sad  voice  of 
the  lone  singer  intensifying  her  anguish: 

"The  mind  will,  in  its  worst  despair, 
Still  ponder  o'er  the  past, 
On  Moments  of  delight  that  were 
Too  beautiful  to  last ; 
To  late  departed  scenes  extend 


Unconventional  Joan  109 

Its  vision  with  them  flown, 
For  Memory  is  the  only  friend 
That  Grief  can  call  its  own." 

II 

Shortly  before  noon  the  telephone  in  the  loft  gave  a 
violent  ring  followed  by  a  succession  of  rings. 

Joan's  heart  stood  still. 

"Jerry!" 

She  seemed  to  be  paralyzed  and  unable  to  move  towards 
the  instrument. 

"Ting-a-ling,  ling,  ling,  ling — " 

"He's  in  a  hurry,"  she  realized,  as  she  clutched  the  tele- 
phone and  almost  shouted: 

"Yes,  Jerry— " 

"Hello,  hello,  Joan!  is  that  you?" 

It  was  a  woman's  voice !  Yes,  she  knew  now,  it  was 
Margaret.  Margaret  was  going  to  break  the  news  to  her 
about  what  had  happened  to  Jerry.  She  was  sorry  she 
had  answered  the  telephone,  and  afraid  to  receive  the 
news. 

"Hello,  hello,  why  don't  you  answer?  Is  that  you, 
Joan?" 

"Yes,  Margaret." 

"I  should  scarcely  recognize  your  voice.  Is  anything 
wrong?" 

"No — yes — no,  nothing.    What  is  it,  Margaret?" 

"Joan,  Maud  Edgar  has  been  in  and  wants  to  come  up 
and  see  the  laboratory;  may  she?  I  forgot  to  ask  you 
about  it  last  night." 

So  that  was  all!  Somehow  she  felt  both  disappointed 
and  relieved. 


no  Unconventional  Joan 

"If  it  would  be  convenient,  Margaret,  I  would  prefer 
her  to  come  some  other  day.  I'll  arrange  it  with  you, 

to-night." 

That  disposed  of  Margaret  for  the  time  being,  without 
disclosing  to  her  what  had  happened.  In  ten  minutes  the 
telephone  rang  again. 

'That's  Margaret  wanting  Maud  to  come  up  to-day, 
after  all,"  she  thought,  as  she  quickly  picked  up  the  instru- 
ment without  even  thinking  about  Jerry. 

"Yes,  Margaret,"  she  spoke  into  the  receiver. 

"Guess  again,  Joan,"  replied  a  man's  laughing  voice. 
"I  would  certainly  like  to  be  as  prominent  in  your  thoughts 
as  Margaret  seems  to  be ;  but  instead  of  being  your  Mar- 
garet, I  am  merely  Tom  Manly." 

"Why,  Tom—" 

"How  are  you,  Joan?" 

"Why — I — I  am  all  right,  Tom,  and  how  are  you? 
It  was  simply  splendid  of  you  to  decide  like  that  to  go.  I 
read  it  in — " 

"Aren't  you  glad  I  don't  have  to — aren't  you  glad  the 
war  is  over,  Joan?" 

"No — I  mean  yes,  of  course  I  am  glad  it  is  over,  only" 
— she  hesitated.  Should  she  tell  him  about  Jerry? 

"May  I  come  up  for  a  moment  ?"  he  enquired. 

She  had  never  prevented  him  from  coming  before. 
Jerry  and  Tom  and  she  had  enjoyed  many  pleasant  chats 
together  in  the  loft.  She  could  not  decently  ask  him  not 
to  come.  Her  delay  in  answering  prompted  him  to  add : 

"I  know  you  are  busy,  Joan,  but  I  have  something  very 
important  to  speak  to  you  about." 

Was  he  intending  to  tell  her  about  Jerry?  Did  he  al- 
ready know?  Had  Jerry  been  to  see  him?  Had  Jerry 


Unconventional  Joan  in 

sent  him  a  note?  Did  he  know  the  contents  of  the  note 
that  Jerry  had  left  for  her — for  her  and  for  him?  Yes, 
there  was  every  reason  to  have  him  come  up  as  quickly  as 
he  could. 

"Certainly,  Tom,  come  up  at  once,"  she  told  him. 

"I'll  be  there  in  a  minute,  Joan." 

Masterful  Tom  Manly  radiated  prosperity  as  he  entered 
the  loft.  Well-groomed  to  the  tips  of  his  evenly  mani- 
cured nails,  tanned  by  many  an  afternoon  of  golf,  tall, 
straight,  smiling,  well-mannered,  keen  of  mind,  sharp  of 
eye,  direct  of  speech,  he  was  as  much  a  man's  man  as  a 
woman's  man.  Joan  never  realized  his  superiority  over 
the  average  man  more  keenly  than  she  did  at  the  moment 
he  entered  the  workshop  that  had  been  deserted  by  poor 
beaten  Jerry. 

"I  suppose  Jerry  is  in  there  breaking  his  head  over  one 
of  his  puzzles,"  he  commenced,  nodding  to  the  door  that 
Joan  had  purposely  closed  and  as  much  as  telling  her  that 
he  did  not  know  where  Jerry  was. 

She  made  no  answer,  and  he  continued,  going  direct  to 
the  object  of  his  visit: 

"Joan,  I  think  you  know  I  am  a  friend  of  all  of  your 
friends,  and  I  am  supposed  to  be  a  newspaper  man.  It  is 
both  as  a  friend  and  as  a  newspaper  man  that  I  have  come 
to  advise  you  to  ask  the  Rector  to  cancel  this  moving- 
picture  show  and  dance  at  the  Church  on  Monday  night. 
He  can  do  it  from  his  pulpit  tomorrow  morning." 

Tom  Manly 's  method  was  to  get  what  he  wanted,  to 
take  in  spite  of  every  obstacle,  and  he  had  come  expecting 
to  be  opposed  but  determined  to  do  what  he  had  set  out  to 
do,  for  Joan's  sake,  for  the  Rector's  sake,  and  for  his  own 
sake  in  beating  Keating,  who  had  him  at  a  disadvantage. 


112  Unconventional  Joan 

"But  why,  Tom?"  Joan  enquired. 

Manly  spread  out  on  the  table  the  fresh  afternoon  edi- 
tions of  the  News  and  Record.  He  showed  her  Keating's 
editorial  attack  on  the  Rector  and  his  own  notice  about 
the  dance. 

"For  several  reasons,  Joan,  and  first  of  all  because  the 
Rector  is  going  to  bring  odium  on  you  by  bringing  it  on 
himself,  through  a  failure  followed  by  harmful  newspaper 
notoriety." 

"Tom,  I  certainly  appreciate  your  consideration  for  me, 
as  well  as  for  the  Rector,  but  I  think  he  is  naturally  a 
better  judge  of  what  is  best  for  the  promotion  of  his  work 
than  you  are.  I  myself  may  not  be  in  accord  with  his 
plan,  but  I  defer  to  his  judgment." 

"Well,  Joan,  suppose  I  should  be  able  to  prove  to  you 
that  his  plan  is  bound  to  come  to  grief  ?" 

"But  your  paper  will  support  it,  so  it  cannot  come  to 
grief,  no  matter  what  Keating  does." 

"That's  just  the  point.  Our  paper  may  not  only  not 
support  it  but  will  probably  be  compelled  to  condemn  it." 

"Tom,  you  would  never  do  that." 

The  way  in  which  she  said  it  made  him  understand  that 
it  would  require  very  great  outside  pressure  upon  him  to 
make  him  hurt  her.  But  he  outlined  the  possibilities,  and 
spoke  his  mind  clearly,  without  reservation: 

"Pogo  is  angry  and  influential.  He  could  stop  adver- 
tising with  us.  We  could  stand  that.  But  his  business 
interests  are  interlocked  with  ours.  He  might  be  able  to 
induce  banks  to  call  in  our  loans  or  to  call  in  the  loans  of 
concerns  that  support  us.  Before  I  start  to  edit  the  morn- 
ing's paper  to-night  I  expect  to  be  ordered  to  oppose  the 
Church's  entrance  into  the  moving-picture  business.  And, 


Unconventional  Joan  113 

apart  from  hurting  you,  it  would  not  make  us  feel  badly 
to  attack  this  radical  departure,  because  it  is  unpractical 
and  ill  conceived.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  This 
is  the  only  world  we  can  live  in,  and  to  get  along  in  it  we 
must  get  in  tune  with  its  vast  and  complicated  scheme  of 
business  organization  and  influence.  We  may  not  like  it, 
but  in  order  to  live,  we  are  compelled  to  get  along  with  it. 
No  practical  man  will  invite  the  ill-will  of  banks.  No 
sensible  man  will  choke  off  his  existence  by  making  it  im- 
possible for  himself  to  obtain  needed  money.  He  may  say 
that  'money  isn't  life',  but  it  actually  is.  It  is  the  price  of 
existence,  and  the  money-makers  control  life.  Why,  even 
the  Churches  admit  and  get  along  on  that  principle.  Play 
the  game  according  to  the  set  rules,  stand  in  with  the 
crowd.  Break  the  rules  or  'get  in  wrong'  with  the  crowd 
and  we  are  through — " 

"That  sounds  very  interesting,  Tom,  and  the  most  in- 
teresting part  of  it  is  your  intimation  that  'this  getting 
along  with  things  as  they  are'  may  be  all  wrong.  Why 
don't  you  develop  that  idea  and  publish  it?" 

"There  is  no — well,  what  an  editor  would  call  'copy'  in 
that.  It  is  not  the  sort  of  stuff  that  will  sell  an  editor's 
paper  to  the  ordinary  man  in  the  streets." 

"Surely  you  are  big  enough  to  make  it  sell  your 
papers?" 

"Joan,  the  penalty  of  unsuccessful  innovation  is  anni- 
hilation!" 

"I  think  that  even  I  could  do  it."    She  stuck  to  her  point. 

"Joan,  do  you  think  you  could  break  the  newspapers  to 
your  will?" 

"Tom  Manly,"  she  shot  back  at  him,  thinking  of  what 
the  Record  had  done  to  Jerry,  "the  high-and-mighty  way 


114  Unconventional  Joan 


in 


which  you  say  that  shows  that  a  newspaper  tyrannically 
arrogates  to  itself  dominion  over  all  of  us.  You  have  us 
at  your  mercy.  You  do  with  us  whatever  you  please  and 
we  are  helpless.  If  for  any  reason,  good  or  bad,  we  make 
you  angry,  you  trample  us  as  a  vicious  stallion  would.  If 
we  seem  funny  to  you  then  you  amuse  yourselves  with  us, 
just  like  a  wanton  child  who  picks  a  butterfly  to  pieces." 
He  felt  that  the  argument  had  gone  far  enough.  He 
had  been  unsuccessful,  but  he  was  not  one  to  give  up  in  a 
single  attempt.  Jerry  might  be  able  to  help  him  influence 
her,  he  decided,  and  enquired: 

"When  will  Jerry  get  through  for  the  day,  Joan?  I 
should  like  to  see  him." 

"He  usually  stops  shortly  before  six,"  she  said  evasive- 
ly, unable  to  tell  him  that  Jerry  was  not  there.  "He  will 
come  back  soon,"  her  instinct  repeated  to  her,  and  it  had 
never  deceived  her  yet.  "Maybe  he  will  be  here  when  Tom 
returns,"  she  uselessly  comforted  herself,  with  nothing 
but  hope  in  which  to  justify  her  optimism. 

"May  I  come  back,  then,  at  six  o'clock,  Joan  ?" 
She  could  not  refuse  him,  and  yet,  as  she  agreed  and 
watched  him  go — persevering,  likable  Tom  Manly — she 
wondered  if  her  sensations  had  actually  ever  given  real 
battle  to  that  instinct  of  hers  upon  which  she  relied  so 
much.  Tom  Manly  was  always  a  fighter,  always  took 
what  he  wanted,  she  remembered.  And  that  attitude  had 
always  challenged  her  opposition.  It  had  never  previously 
dominated  her.  It  had  never  heretofore  seriously  entered 
her  mind  to  suspect  that  he  might  master  her  in  anything. 
His  aggressiveness  seldom  failed  to  win  her  secret  ad- 
miration and  yet  invariably  provoked  her  open  defiance. 
She  had  never  examined  the  reason  for  this  before.  It 


Unconventional  Joan  115 

occurred  to  her  now  that  there  might  be  a  racial  or 
national  reason  for  it.  She  might  have  it  in  her  conserva- 
tive blood  to  resent  being  rushed.  She  must  conquer  that 
impulsive  tendency,  she  decided,  or  at  least  control  it, 
rather  than  let  it  arbitrarily  master  her.  Actuated  by 
this  decision,  almost  involuntarily  she  rose  and  went  to 
the  window  to  watch  Tom  cross  the  street  to  the  offices  of 
the  News  but  as  she  saw  him  dash  briskly  through  the 
rain  her  thoughts  flew  to  the  other  man,  who,  like  Tom, 
but  in  a  different  way — retiringly — had  always  been  so 
much  a  part  of  her  life,  probably  at  that  moment  plodding 
aimlessly,  dejected  and  drenched  to  the  skin — perhaps 
dying ! 

in 

The  burly  form  of  a  big  policeman  appeared  in  the 
doorway  of  the  outer  office. 

Joan  quivered — like  something  crumbling — knees  giv- 
ing way  beneath  her  again. 

Jerry  was  dead ! 

Now  she  was  to  hear  the  particulars. 

All  the  sorrows  of  a  lifetime  were  crowding  in  upon 
her  in  a  single  morning,  she  discovered. 

What  had  she  ever  done  to  merit  such  cruel  punish- 
ment? 

She  sank  into  a  chair  and  protestingly  raised  her  hands 
in  front  of  her  eyes,  as  if  to  ward  off  the  impending  blow. 

She  could  not  endure  it.  She  did  not  deserve  it.  It 
seemed  brutally  unjust. 

"Madam,"  blustered  the  towering  policeman. 

She  could  make  no  answer. 

"Madam,"  he  repeated,  with  commanding  emphasis, 


n6  Unconventional  Joan 

"are  you  the  keeper  of  this  canine  menagerie  up  here?" 

"This  what?"  she  faltered. 

'This  dog-army,"  he  sneered,  "this  four-legged  pro- 
cession that  follows  you  up  here  from  the  corner,  every 
morning.  You'll  have  to  cut  'em  out.  The  Record  next 
door  objects  to  it." 

Unlimited  courage  suddenly  returned  to  her. 

Jerry's  enemy  was  inviting  his  own  annihilation  at 
her  hands ! 

"Oh,  Mr.  Keating  objects,  does  he?"  she  snapped  back 
at  him  with  all  the  vindictiveness  of  which  her  little  heart 
was  capable. 

"It's  against  the  law,"  explained  the  law's  custodian. 

"Against  the  law  to  have  a  dog?"  sarcastically  pro- 
tested Joan. 

"Dogs,  not  dog,"  growled  the  officer,  "You  can't  have 
a  million  of  'em — " 

"I'll  keep  one,  then/'  she  retorted.  But  which  one? 
Every  one  of  them  was  dear  to  her — How  was  she  going 
to  choose? 

"I'll  keep  Paregoric,"  she  finally  decided. 

"Keep  what?"  he  questioned. 

"Paregoric — Paregoric — my  dog  Paregoric — can't  I 
keep  something — anything,"  she  defiantly  pleaded,  as  the 
tears  came  in  a  torrent  and  convulsions  of  grief  began 
again  to  shake  her  little  body. 

"Keep  'em  all,  Madam,  keep  'em  all,"  Her  distress  had 
instantly  tamed  her  persecutor,  and  he  made  haste  to  com- 
fort her,  with  the  whole  of  his  big  heart  throbbing  in  his 
words.  "It's  nothing  to  me,  you  know.  I  wouldn't  hurt 
you  on  account  of  a  few  extra  dogs — not  me.  It's  that 
guy  next  door  what  put  me  on  to  you,"  he  apologetically 


Unconventional  Joan  117 

explained.     "Keep  'em  all,  keep  'em  all,  keep  'em  all." 

IV 

At  six  o'clock  persistent  Tom  returned  to  enlist  Jerry's 
aid. 

Joan,  robed  in  her  solicitude  for  Jerry,  that  trans- 
figured her  as  no  gown  could  do,  showed  Tom,  what 
every  man  eventually  comes  to  learn — that  the  woman 
whom  he  loves  is  irresistibly  most  lovable  in  her  hour  of 
patient  agony. 

Torn  Manly,  looking  upon  her,  knew  that  he  wanted  her 
more  intensely  than  he  wanted  anything  in  life,  and  in 
the  circumstances  which  rapidly  developed  within  the 
next  few  minutes,  he  quickly  decided  that  because  he 
wanted  her  he  was  justified  in  taking  her,  and  deter- 
mined to  do  so. 

"Joan,  you  are  in  trouble.  I  offended  you  by  what  I 
said,"  he  contritely  pleaded,  in  tones  so  sincerely  sym- 
pathetic that  they  would  have  been  enough  to  start  her 
tears  even  had  she  not  been  on  the  verge. 

The  sorrow  in  her  eyes,  as  she  shook  her  head,  touched 
him  deeply.  For  a  moment  he  stood  nervously  fingering 
his  hat  before  her.  He  wanted  to  go  quickly  closer  to  her. 
She  must  have  sensed  this,  for  she  turned  from  him, 
weeping  bitterly.  He  dared  not  follow  her  and  have  Jerry 
come  out  and  find  him  doing  so.  He  hurried  over  to  the 
shut  door  and  opened  it,  to  ask  Jerry's  help  about  Joan's 
trouble.  Jerry  was  not  there !  Then  he  literally  rushed 
toward  Joan,  and  grasping  her  two  arms  turned  her  little 
form  round  to  face  him. 

"He  is  so  different  from  Jerry,"  she  thought,  "so 
exactly  opposite  to  him.  My  tears  embarrass  Jerry — 


ii8  Unconventional  Joan 

almost  make  him  keep  away — but  they  draw  Tom  to  me." 

Pressing  her  gently  down  into  a  chair  he  knelt  beside 
her,  holding  her  hands,  and  drawing  from  her  the  story 
of  Jerry's  fight  against  his  feelings  outraged  by  the 
Record,  his  struggle  to  complete,  before  the  end  of  the 
war,  his  invention  that  was  to  have  "multiplied  the  power 
of  the  Press,"  the  contest  between  his  inclinations  toward 
her  and  his  reason,  that  would  not  countenance  his  emo- 
tions ;  the  preparation  for  the  final  test,  the  plans  for  what 
was  to  have  been  the  happiest  day  of  their  lives,  her  arrival 
at  the  loft,  his  absence,  and  finally  the  note  which  Jerry 
had  left  for  him  and  her: 

"Joan  and  Tom,  my  dear  pals,  it  has  worked  out  for  the 
best,  and  nobody  wishes  you  greater  happiness  than  your 
old  chum,  Jerry." 

While  she  pitifully  sobbed  her  heartbreaking  revela- 
tion, his  own  heart  beat  faster  and  faster  with  the  realiza- 
tion that  with  Jerry's  voluntary  removal  he  was  honour- 
ably free  to  take  what  he  wanted — what  he  wanted  now 
more  intensely  than  he  could  ever  want  anything,  even 
existence,  without  her. 

"Joan,  you  told  Jerry  that  I  had  asked  you  ?" 

"Yes,  Tom." 

His  hand  closed  more  tightly  upon  her  own,  and  he 
could  feel  her  pulse  beating  rapidly. 

"And  you  read  in  last  night's  paper  that  I  would  have 
gone,  as  you  wished?" 

"Yes,  Tom,  it  was  magnificent." 

Into  her  empty,  aching  heart  stealthily  stole  the  ardour 
of  his  desire  for  her,  and  in  the  guise  of  sympathy  warmed 
it  with  gratitude  to  him  and  admiration  for  the  persis- 
tency of  his  wooing. 


Unconventional  Joan  119 

"Joan,  are  you  sure  Jerry  really  loved  you?" 

"We  were  just  everything  to  each  other."  How  could 
he  ask  such  a  question,  she  wondered. 

"But  would  he  have  left  you,  if — " 

"That  proved  his  love,  Tom.  He  did  it  for  what  he 
thought  to  be  my  good.  He  might  have  stayed,  he  might 
have  taken  me;  but — "  she  found  herself  repeating  Jerry's 
own  words,  "  'proof  of  love  is  based  on  sacrifice  alone ; 
some  men  may  think  they  love  without  making  a  sacrifice 
to  prove  their  love,  but  that  isn't  love.  It  is  simply  selfish- 
ness. It  is  called — '  "  she  hesitated,  "and  besides,  Tom, 
Jerry  will  come  back  soon." 

"Joan,  I  think  I  know  Jerry  pretty  well,  and  I  tell  you 
he  will  never  come  back,"  he  pleadingly  remonstrated. 

"Don't  say  that,"  she  rebuked  him.  "My  instinct  tells 
me  he  will  come  back  soon.  It  is  just  as  if  the  wireless 
there  was  speaking  into  my  ears  at  this  instant  that  he  is 
coming.  I  can  feel  it  in  my  heart  that  he  will  come  back 
soon." 

Re-echoing  her  words,  came  the  sound  of  Jerry's  foot- 
steps as  he  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

Bedraggled,  tottering,  with  the  heavy  hand  of  death 
upon  his  shoulder,  he  had  staggered  aimlessly  around  all 
day  and  eventually  wandered  back  to  her  waiting  and 
aching  arms. 

The  weakness  of  love  ? 

Might  he  not  have  called  it  that? 

In  his  proper  senses  would  he  have  admitted  that  it  was 
love,  not  selfishness,  that  effected  his  return? 

Reaching  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  looking  through  the 
broken  open  door,  he  saw  Joan  with  Tom  kneeling  beside 
her,  and  drew  quickly  back  into  the  shadow. 


120  Unconventional  Joan 

"Jerry — Jerry — Jerry!"  he  heard  her  call  out,  as  she 
started  for  the  open  door. 

He  did  not  answer. 

A  few  steps  farther  and  she  would  reach  out  and  take 
him  in  his  weakness  into  her  arms. 

Feebly  he  fought  his  last  battle  between  his  reason 
and  his  heart. 

He  was  a  failure.    Tom  was  a  success. 

That  gave  the  solution. 

"Jerry  is  not  there,  Joan.  It  is  only  your  imagination," 
Tom  said  to  her.  He  led  her  gently  back  to  her  chair. 

"It  is  cruel,  Joan,  that  you  should  be  so  unhappy.  I 
know  that  I  can  make  you  happy,  and  I  do  so  want  to 
make  you  happy,  Joan,  Joan — " 

To  Jerry,  listening  in  the  shadow,  Tom's  words  spoke 
his  doom.  Tom  was  right.  Tom  could  make  her  happy. 
He  himself  had  failed.  It  was  right  that  Tom  should 
have  his  chance.  It  was  plainly  his  duty  to  leave  Joan 
to  Tom. 

As  the  swaying  figure  crept  noiselessly  down  the  stairs, 
away  from  all  that  was  dear  to  him  in  the  world — away 
from  the  scene  of  his  associations  with  Joan — away  for- 
ever from  Joan  herself — out  into  the  darkness,  into  the 
chilling  and  killing  rain,  there  followed  him  from  his 
beloved  wireless  the  sad  strains  of  the  plaintive  singer's 
sobbing  voice,  chanting  the  elegy  of  his  buried  career: 

"For  Memory  is  the  only  friend 
That  Grief  can  call  its  own." 

"No  Tom,  Jerry  will  come  back  to  me,"  Joan  replied, 
not  knowing  that  he  had  come,  and  gone,  "never  to  re- 
turn." 


Unconventional  Joan  121 

"And  if  Jerry  does  not  come  back,  Joan — " 

She  was  silent  for  a  while,  quietly  weeping. 

"Dear  Tom,  like  a  brother  to  me,"  she  had  candidly 
and  proudly  admitted  in  the  tea-shop.  Now  she  could 
but  admit  it  to  herself  again, — but  even  more  feelingly, 
under  the  influence  of  her  sympathy  for  the  suffering  in 
his  heart,  of  which  she  was  the  occasion.  It  was  not  in 
her  to  intensify  that  suffering.  She  would  have  preferred 
to  ease  it,  if  she  could.  But  it  was  impossible  to  answer 
him  as  he  desired  to  be  answered.  She  could  not  bear  to 
think  that  she  might  lose  any  of  his  regard  for  her — that 
he  should  be  any  least  bit  different  to  her  as  a  result  of 
any  answer  that  she  might  give. 

She  said  aloud  at  last: 

"Tom,  what  are  you  going  to  do  to-night  about  sup- 
porting the  Rector  in  your  paper  ?" 

Determined  Tom,  clutching  at  straws,  wondered  if  this 
was  meant  as  encouragement. 

"I  honestly  do  not  know,  Joan,"  he  frankly  replied. 

And  Joan  added: 

"Tom,  that's  my  answer,  too." 


CHAPTER  VI 


TOM  MANLY  entered  the  editorial  rooms  of  the 
Nat's  with  no  solution  of  his  many-sided  problem. 

Joan  had  been  forced  to  confess  to  herself,  that,  under 
the  conditions  which  bound  him,  Tom  would  be  com- 
pelled either  to  sacrifice  his  newspaper  interests  to  stand 
by  the  Rector,  or  else  attack  the  Church  and  satisfy  his 
masters.  She  hoped  he  would  not  do  the  latter,  and  she 
was  sure  that  he  would  not  do  the  former. 

To  Tom,  analyzing  the  problem  at  his  desk,  in  his  care- 
ful way,  its  intricacies  were  alarming. 

He  must  not  offend  Joan,  which  meant  that  he  could 
not  oppose  the  Church. 

He  was  compelled  to  safeguard  the  Nezus  and  satisfy 
Pogo. 

He  must  beat  the  Record  at  its  own  game. 

He  must  prove  to  Joan  that  the  Church  project  was 
unpractical. 

And  finally  he  must  actually  have  Joan. 

The  last  phase  of  the  problem  was  the  most  important 
and  difficult  of  all. 

Conferring  with  his  associates  he  said: 

"To  follow  the  Record  now,  would  be  to  compliment 
it."  His  private  version  was,  "To  follow  the  Record 
now  would  be  to  lose  Joan." 

"Better  go  with  the  Record  than  lose  our  patronage," 
they  retorted. 

"We  could  wait,"  he  replied.  "Silence  won't  hurt  any- 
one involved — " 

"Silence  won't  help,"  interrupted  the  advertising  mana- 

122 


Unconventional  Joan  123 

ger.  "Silence  won't  do.  Pogo  demands  an  attack  on  the 
Church  innovation  that  threatents  to  ruin  his  business. 
Stop  the  parson's  project,  or  we  lose  his  advertising  and 
the  advertising  of  his  friends.  They  are  united  against 
the  Church  project.  It  is  all  wrong,  anyhow.  The 
Record  has  beaten  us.  We  must  admit  it  and  get  in  line. 
Let's  take  our  medicine  and  get  the  paper  on  the  press 
instead  of  sitting  here  all  night  pitying  ourselves." 

Money  was  talking,  and  wise  men  never  contradict 
what  it  says. 

"Stop  the  Rector's  project!"  rang  in  Tom's  ears. 

Those  were  his  orders.  He  had  anticipated  them  be- 
fore he  got  them.  He  had  done  his  best,  through  Joan 
to  "stop  the  Rector's  project,"  and  if  she  could  not  or 
would  not,  nobody  could.  Perhaps  Jerry  might  have 
done  it,  but  Jerry  was  out  of  all  consideration  now. 

"Stop  the  Rector's  project,"  rang  the  command,  and 
with  all  his  persevering  determination,  which  never  ca- 
pitulated to  any  obstacle  he  answered: 

"There  must  be  a  way  out  of  this  dilemma,  and  I  am 
either  going  to  find  it  or  make  one  of  my  own." 

Several  hours  remained  before  the  paper  would  go  to 
press  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  the  city  would 
be  asleep,  but  when  the  newspaper  office  would  be  most 
widely  awake.  Hours  after  that,  the  city  would  awaken, 
pick  up  its  morning  paper,  think  it  was  reading  unbiased 
news,  and,  unless  unusually  wide  awake  would,  in  the 
language  of  Larry,  "never  suspect  that  it  was  reading 
mostly  propaganda,  hate-stories,  advertising  sops,  pub- 
licity puffs,  exaggerated  reports  and  distorted  facts,  skil- 
fully selected  by  well-tutored  reporters  and  artfully  as- 
sembled by  editors  subjected  to  a  variety  of  influences 


124  Unconventional  Joan 

ranging  from  petty  vanity  to  the  most  prodigious 
bribery." 

With  extraordinary  celerity,  Tom  reached  the  point  in 
his  deliberations  when  he  felt  fully  satisfied  with  the  re- 
sults of  his  concentration  upon  his  problem. 

Indomitable  Tom! 

"Hold  two  half -columns  open  on  page  two  for  the 
'Church  Movies',"  he  instructed  his  assistant,  as  he 
reached  for  the  telephone,  certain  that  he  had  devised  a 
solution  which  would  please  Joan,  satisfy  his  associates 
on  the  News,  beat  the  Record  by  a  scoop,  show  Joan  that 
the  Rector's  project  was  unpractical,  and  incidentally  pre- 
vent her  being  lost  to  him,  thus  reconciling  all  the  con- 
tradictory elements  of  his  problem. 

"Operator,  call  Mr.  Pogo's  residence." 

"Hello,  is  that  Mr.  Pogo's  home?  May  I  speak  to 
Miss  Peggy  Pogo?" 

"Who  is  it?" 

"The  editor  of  the  News." 

"Oh,  then  you  want  to  speak  to  Mr.  Victor  Pogo?" 

"No,  Miss  Peggy." 

At  the  Pogo  home  the  offspring  of  the  theatre-mag- 
nate suddenly  and  completely  lost  her  studied  apathy  as 
she  fluttered  from  the  dining  table  to  the  telephone,  highly 
excited  and  flattered  by  being  asked  if  she  would  talk  to 
the  editor  of  the  News.  Would  she?  She  certainly  would. 

"Hello,  this  is  Peggy  Pogo.  Did  you  want  to  speak 
to  my  Pop?" 

"No  Miss;  to  Miss  Peggy.    You  are  Miss  Peggy?" 

"Yes,"  Such  a  delightful  new  thrill!  So  different 
from  all  the  others! 

"The  News  begs  to  suggest  that  it  would  be  a  very  nice 


Unconventional  Joan  125 

thing  if  Miss  Peggy  Pogo,  daughter  of  the  popular  pro- 
prietor of  Pogo's  Picture  Palace,  would  volunteer  to  act 
as  directress  and  patroness  of  the  Church  Dance  on  Mon- 
day evening,  after  the  movies,  and  allow  the  News  to 
publish  a  two-column  photo  of  her  in  the  morning  edition, 
which  would  carry  a  story  of  her  intention  to  make  the 
dance  a  success?" 

Angels  of  Paradise  support  Peggy  from  collapsing! 
A  two-column  picture  of  her  in  the  paper ! 

"My  picture  in  the  Sunday  News,  did  you  say? — but 
my  Pop  is  opposed  to  those  movies  at  the  Church — " 

"But  think  of  the  business  and  advertising  value  to  be 
gained  from  helping  the  Church  project  rather  than  in- 
viting ill-will." 

"But  we  don't  want  to  help." 

Tom  knew  that,  without  Peggy  telling  him.  That  im- 
movable fact  was  the  very  basis  of  his  plan.  What  he 
replied  was: 

"Well,  you  can't  stop  it,  so  you  might  as  well  get  some 
personal  and  business  advertising  out  of  it.  I  myself  am 
against  the  affair,  and  would  like  to  see  it  stopped.  How- 
ever, since  it  is  going  to  be  held,  you  can't  do  yourself 
any  harm  by  handling  the  dance  for  them.  I  know  you 
would  make  good,  and  our  paper  thinks  there  is  a  good 
human  interest  story  in  the  idea  of  the  Church  being 
helped  out  by  a  moving-picture  man  too  big  to  feel  en- 
vious." 

Sophisticated  Peggy,  accustomed  to  fathoming  the 
meaning  behind  men's  words,  began  to  glimpse  a  reason 
additional  to  the  satisfaction  of  her  vanity  for  her  ac- 
ceptance of  the  proposal. 

"Wait  a  moment,  and  I'll  ask  Pop,"  she  replied. 


126  Unconventional  Joan 

"All  right.  Call  me  up  immediately,  so  that  we  can 
send  up  for  your  latest  photo,  because  we  must  hurry  if 
we  are  to  get  you  into  tomorrow  morning's  paper." 

In  a  minute  Tom's  telephone  rang,  and  Peggy  in- 
formed him: 

"Pop  says  all  right,  and  you  can  take  it  from  me  that 
I'll  not  disappoint  you — I'll  make  good." 

ii 

Later  in  the  evening,  a  voice  over  Keating's  telephone 
informed  the  editor  of  the  Record  that  a  catastrophe  had 
happened  to  Jerry  Englin. 

"Hello,  who  are  you?"  Keating  enquired:  "Hello! 
Hello!  is  that  the  morgue?  Hello!  is  that  the  hospital? 
Hello!  who  is  speaking?"  The  current  failed,  or  the 
speaker  hung  up.  There  was  no  answer. 

Keating,  in  a  fever  of  excitement,  called  up  the  loft, 
got  no  answer,  sent  up  a  reporter,  who  found  the  broken 
door,  rang  up  Joan  at  her  home,  was  told  by  Larry  that 
Joan  was  asleep  and  advised  to  call  up  Tom  Manly,  did 
so  and  was  good  naturedly  and  evasively  informed  by  the 
editor  of  the  News  that  if  he  ever  happened  to  have  any 
story  about  Jerry  or  about  anybody  else  he  could  be 
trusted  to  keep  it  to  himself,  and  away  from  the  Record 
until  it  had  first  been  printed  in  the  News. 

Having  made  this  "careful"  investigation,  and  with 
these  "abundant  facts"  and  "accurate  sources"  of  infor- 
mation at  his  disposal,  the  editor  of  what  Joan  termed  a 
"vicious  newspaper,"  deliberately  took  a  whole  tenth  of  a 
second  to  decide  that  he  would  publish  in  the  morning  a 
"full  account"  of  the  "Mysterious  Disappearance  of 
Jerry  Englin." 


Unconventional  Joan  127 

in 

Larry  had  his  suspicions  about  that  Mr.  Keating's 
telephone  call,  so  in  the  morning  he  took  in  the  Record 
and  the  News  from  the  vestibule,  read  their  extraordinary 
contents,  and  then  sagaciously  hid  them  until  he  could 
prepare  Joan  and  the  Rector  for  the  shock,  after  which 
he  would  produce  the  papers  with  their  horrible  offensive- 
ness  diminished. 

Larry  and  the  Rector  sat  facing  each  other  at  the 
breakfast  table  waiting  for  the  girls.  Larry's  face  be- 
trayed poorly-controlled  anger.  In  his  bitterest  tones 
he  blurted  out  at  the  Rector: 

"If  I  were  an  advertiser  I  would  just  as  soon  print  my 
advertisement  on  a  piece  of  garbage  and  send  it  in  here 
alongside  of  the  breakfast  plates  as  print  it  in  one  of  our 
vile  newspapers.  It  wouldn't  be  in  any  filthier  com- 
pany—" 

"Larry !"  remonstrated  the  Rector.  "Your  language — " 

"Is  not  as  offensive  as  the  sewers  of  newspapers  that 
pour  their  dirty  contents  over  my  porridge  every  morn- 
ing," Larry  hotly  continued. 

"I  am  not  questioning  your  arguments,  Larry,"  more 
mildly  protested  the  Rector,  "but  your  choice  of  lan- 
guage—" 

"Is  the  only  language  applicable  to  the  foulest  thing 
that  is  let  live,  a  newspaper,"  flung  back  Larry,  whose 
wrath  now  was  ungovernable.  "Fie  upon  hypocrisy  that 
complacently  contemplates  filth  and  then  dishonestly  dis- 
dains to  stigmatize  it  by  its  proper  name." 

Joan  and  Margaret  entered,  red-eyed  from  crying  dur- 
ing the  night  over  the  Rector's  fight  with  Pogo  and  the 
Record,  and  Joan's  revelations  about  Jerry. 


128  Unconventional  Joan 

Larry,  looking  at  the  two  girls  and  at  the  Rector,  and 
more  than  ever  incensed  that  three  such  people  should  be, 
as  he  mellifluously  put  it — "cruelly  victimized  instead  of 
idolized,"  swept  resentfully  onward  in  his  tirade,  after 
carefully  lifting  his  legs  out  of  the  danger  zone  of  an- 
ticipated kicks  from  Joan. 

"I  was  remarking  to  the  Rector,  before  you  young 
ladies  came  in  that  no  tale  is  too  grotesque  to  be  spread 
broadcast  by  our  newspapers.  And  readers  accept  those 
tales  as  they  do  doctor's  pills  or  clergyman's  sermons. 
They  swallow  the  moral,  political,  mental  and  financial 
poison  fed  to  them,  like  the  gluttons  for  misery  that  they 
morbidly  are." 

"But  Larry,  there  are  good  and  vicious  newspapers, 
just  as  there  is  good  and  bad  in  everything  else,"  re- 
monstrated Joan,  thinking  of  Tom's  struggle  to  avoid 
harming  the  Rector  and  offending  her. 

Larry  indulgently  grinned  at  Joan,  and  raised  his  legs 
as  high  as  he  could  get  them,  as  he  replied: 

"To  me  there  is  nothing  more  overwhelming  than  the 
pathetic  tragedy  of  a  common  person  championing  the 
Press,  that  has  not  a  genuine  spark  of  human  feeling  for 
any  individual  nor  any  ideal  whatsoever  of  public  wel- 
fare. To  expect  justice  and  truth  from  a  newsaper  is  to 
demand  perfume  from  a — "  he  was  intending  to  say 
"skunk"  if  the  Rector's  warning  cough  and  vigorous 
efforts  by  Joan  to  reach  him  with  her  foot  had  not  stopped 
him. 

Larry's  seeming  dread  of  Joan's  kicks  grew  with  his 
malady,  and  to  Joan,  who  controlled  him,  and  who  in- 
stinctively regarded  all  human  phenomena  through  the 
eyes  of  the  little  mother  of  the  tea-shop,  his  increasing 


Unconventional  Joan  129 

awe  of  being  kicked  by  her  intimated  childishness  as  the 
impending  phase  of  his  mental  decline. 

"Larry,  what  can  you  be  so  upset  about  this  morning?" 
asked  Margaret. 

"My  remarks  are  most  timely,"  replied  Larry,  using 
his  pet  phrase,  "as  you  shall  see  when  you  have  read  the 
morning  Record's  scare  headlines  of  outraged  indignation 
over  the  Rector's  moving  picture  entertainment  to-mor- 
row night,  and  observed  its  jackal  editor  tearing  to  pieces 
the  carcass  of  his  latest  victim,  Jerry  Englin."  He  spread 
the  paper  out  before  them. 

Weeping  and  comforting  one  another,  the  three  un- 
offending victims  read  and  re-read  the  two  articles  in  the 
Record  until  each  line  had  seared  deeply  into  their  already 
agonized  hearts. 

"And  the  News,  Larry,  what  does  it  publish?"  tremu- 
lously asked  Joan. 

"Nothing,  not  a  line  about  Jerry  Englin,  and  this  most 
astounding  announcement  that  the  theatre-magnate's 
daughter  is  actually  going  to  help  the  Rector  with  his 
project,"  replied  Larry,  handing  the  News  to  Margaret, 
who  hysterically  read  the  welcome  article  to  her  amazed 
father. 

Their  astonishment  knew  no  bounds ! 

Joan  smiled  proudly  through  her  tears. 

"Tom  accomplished  this  for  me,"  she  realized,  just  as 
she  had  been  compelled  to  admit  when  she  read  about  his 
planned  departure  for  the  Front. 

The  comprehensiveness  of  what  he  had  done  amazed 
her.  Twelve  hours  ago  his  problem  had  been  unsolvable, 
and  he  had  been  unable  to  face  either  herself,  the  Rector, 
his  own  associates  on  the  News,  or  Pogo,  and  now,  this 


130  Unconventional  Joan 

morning,  he  could  proudly  face  everyone  of  them,  to  re- 
ceive not  their  disapproval,  but  their  appreciation  of  what 
he  had  achieved. 

What  a  beating  his  scoop  administered  to  the  Record! 

Aloud  she  said: 

"Larry,  didn't  I  tell  you  that  there  were  both  good  and 
vicious  newspapers?" 

Larry  grinned. 

IV 

The  remainder  of  the  meal  was,  for  Joan,  a  half 
happy,  half  sad  reverie,  about  Jerry,  and  Tom  and  the 
contents  of  the  newspapers. 

"Tom  is  wonderful,"  she  remembered  that  Jerry  had 
said  of  him;  and  "why?"  she  had  asked. 

"Because  he  does  things — wonderful  things — does 
them  at  the  right  time,"  Jerry  had  enthusiastically  ex- 
plained, and  added,  "Tom  is  unbeatable !  Tom  gets  what 
he  wants!" 

"Jerry  is  splendid,"  Tom  had  remarked  to  her  about 
his  pal,  "so  careful — so  scrupulously  considerate — so  de- 
liberately thoughtful  and  calculating  and  reserved." 

Confiding  their  admiration  of  each  other  to  her — the 
little  mother  of  the  tea-shop. 

As  though  they  might  have  been  her  two  own  boys. 
As  such  indeed  she  had  almost  regarded  them,  until — 
until  Jerry  had  come  to  mean  so  much  more. 

So  different,  she  mused,  and  yet  so  companionable — 
loving  each  other. 

Different  and  yet  loving  each  other — "going  together." 

Overwhelming  memories  of  the  knife  and  spoon! 

Natural  enough,  though,  she  soliloquized.    People  get 


Unconventional  Joan  131 

along  with  one  another's  differences.  People  rather  like 
one  another's  differences — they  help  out — complement- 
improve.  That  is  why  people  naturally  want  to  get  along 
with  one  another.  That  is  why  it  takes  a  lot  of  provoking 
to  prevent  their  getting  along  with  one  another.  It  is  only 
busybodies  that  provoke  people  to  exaggerate  and  dis- 
like one  another's  differences.  She  glanced  at  the  news- 
papers, as  she  thought  about  this,  particularly  at  the 
vicious  one,  and  remembered  the  cartoon.  How  childish, 
she  observed.  Childish  grown-ups  making  faces  at  one 
another.  Childish  grown-ups  crying  for  their  own  way. 
Childish  newspapers  mischievously  prodding  them  on, 
trying  to  make  them  fuss  and  quarrel,  instead  of  teach- 
ing them  to  control  their  dislike  of  other  people's  ways 
and  have  the  spirit  to  understand  and  get  along  with  one 
another — to  like  one  another — just  as  Jerry  and  Tom 
felt  the  need  of  each  other — liked  each  other — undoubt- 
edly helped  each  other — though  as  different  as  night  and 
day. 

Dashing,  venturesome,  aggressive  Tom.  Retiring, 
conservative,  considerate  Jerry. 

Which  would  the  average  woman  prefer?  she  won- 
dered. Which  would  a  young  woman  prefer? 

She  caressingly  brooded  over  them — her  own— one 
lost  to  her,  one  loving  her  still — and  compared  them. 

Tom  could  acquire  some  of  Jerry's  qualities  and  be 
the  better  for  it,  she  speculated — still  hopelessly  loving 
Jerry. 

Jerry  could  have  acquired  some  of  Tom's  qualities  and 
been  even  more  lovable,  too,  perhaps. 

So  with  all  people  who  mix  and  are  different,  she  spec- 
ulated. That  is  the  tremendous  advantage  of  mixing — 


132  Unconventional  Joan 

to  blend — to  assimilate — to  improve — not  to   fuss  and 
fight — nor  keep  on  childishly  crying  for  their  own  ways. 

Too  much  of  one's  own  way  is  not  good  for  any  one, 
her  mother's  instinct  reminded  her.  Overmuch  of  any- 
thing is  a  blight. 

Tom,  with  all  his  resourcefulness  and  enterprise  and 
determination  plus  a  measure  of  Jerry's  conscientious 
reserve!  What  an  irresistible  character  that  would  be! 

Jerry,  with  all  his  scrupulous  consideration  for  others, 
and  his  gentle  and  retiring  ways — with  an  added  dash  of 
Tom's  magnetic  aggressiveness — slow,  sure,  considerate, 
but  decisively  quick  on  occasion !  Oh — if  Jerry  had  but 
only  been  that  way  once — at  the  corner! 

Could  Tom  ever  become  retiring  and  reserved — could 
he?  she  wondered.  It  did  not  seem  probable. 

Could  Jerry  ever  have  been  aggressive?  Impossible! 
Audacious  Jerry!  Unthinkable! 

The  telephone-bell  in  the  hall  interrupted  Joan's 
reverie. 

"Miss  Peggy  Pogo  would  like  to  speak  to  the  Rector," 
announced  Larry. 

The  Rector  answered  the  telephone  and  returned  to 
the  breakfast  table  with  sparkling  eyes. 

"It  is  true,"  he  joyfully  confided.  "Miss  Pogo  is 
actually  going  to  help  us.  And  there  is  no  question 
about  her  meaning  it.  She  has  put  her  whole  heart  into 
it.  She  personally  guarantees  a  success.  She  keeps  as- 
suring me  that  she  'will  make  good.'  " 


CHAPTER    VII 


'  I  ^HE  bells  of  Trinity  Church  pealed  forth  on  Monday 
•*•      evening  at  six  o'clock,  when  Newspaper  Row  was 
emptying  itself  of  its  weary  throng,  and  vied  successfully 
with  Pogo's  electric  sign  in  drawing  patronage. 

"Ding  dong  dong;  ding  dong  dong!" 

Larry  tugged  at  the  ropes  with  childish  glee. 

"Ding  dong  dong;  ding  dong  dong!" 

Peal  upon  peal,  chiming,  booming — their  rumbling, 
drumming,  clattering,  clanking  voices  crashed  through 
the  air.  Hundreds  of  doves  frightened  from  the  belfry 
flew  circling  around  the  heads  of  the  crowds  in  the 
streets  who  halted  in  their  rush  and  stood  looking  up- 
ward in  amazement.  Most  of  them  had  never  heard 
Trinity  Church  bells  before.  The  bells  had  not  been 
rung  for  years. 

"Ting  a  ling,  ting  a  ling,"  sounded  the  telephone  bell 
in  the  sacristy  of  the  Church. 

Larry  could  not  both  haul  away  at  the  ropes  and 
answer  the  telephone. 

"Ding  dong  dong;  ding  dong  dong,"  clamoured  the 
belfry  bells. 

"Ting  a  ling,  ting  a  ling,"  tinkled  the  telephone. 

"Maybe  that's  the  Rector,"  thought  Larry,  "I  had 
better  answer." 

"Hello?"  he  enquiringly  spoke  into  the  mouthpiece. 

"Larry !"  answered  the  Rector's  excited  voice.  "Don't 
you  know  it  is  against  the  law  to  ring  the  Church  bells? 
Don't  you  remember  that  the  City  Council  decided  they 
disturbed  people  and  should  not  be  rung?" 

133 


134  Unconventional  Joan 

'Togo's  vulgar  sign  disturbs  me,  too,"  Larry  shouted 
back  at  the  Rector. 

"That's  not  the  point,  Larry.  The  law  is  the  law  and 
must  be  obeyed.  Stop  ringing  the  bells  at  once,"  com- 
manded the  Rector. 

"But  we  are  beyond  the  law,  now.  We  have  the  back- 
ing of  the  News.  We  stand  in  with  the  bosses.  Nobody 
dares  interfere  with  us  now — " 

"Larry,  it  is  you  who  are  doing  the  interfering.  You 
are  interfering  with  my  efforts,  and  I  want  you  to  obey 
me,"  insisted  the  Rector. 

"Very  well,  sir.  The  persecutions  of  the  last  few  days 
have  been  making  me  worse,  sir.  I'll  not  ring  the  bells," 
replied  poor  Larry,  as  he  hung  up  the  receiver,  yielding 
as  usual  to  the  Rector's  command. 

"Ting  a  ling,  ting  a  ling,"  demanded  the  telephone 
again. 

"Hello?"  enquired  Larry. 

"Can  I  reserve  box  seats  for  the  show?"  piped  a 
woman's  shrill  voice. 

"No  Ma'am,  they're  all  free — yes  Ma'am,  you  come 
along  and  I'll  take  care  of  you,"  he  answered,  as  he  left 
the  receiver  off  the  hook,  remembering  that  to  be  the  prac- 
tice of  popular  show-houses  wishing  to  make  callers 
believe  they  were  not  interested  in  telephone  calls,  having 
so  many  people  already  trying  to  get  seats. 

"It  will  make  them  most  anxious  to  come,"  Larry  said 
to  himself,  but,  as  he  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the 
crowd  around  the  Church,  he  realized  that  he  was  not 
going  to  be  able  to  "take  care"  of  the  lady  who  tele- 
phoned, and  that  there  was  no  further  need  of  ringing 
the  bells. 


Unconventional  Joan  135 

The  publicity  supplied  to  the  Church's  free  cinema- 
show  by  the  fight  between  the  Record  and  the  Neu's 
jammed  Newspaper  Row  with  an  army  of  curious  mov- 
ing-picture patrons  who  had  been  reinforced  by  a  multi- 
tude that  had  gathered  for  the  second  celebration  of  the 
Armistice,  just  confirmed.  Obviously  a  free-for-all  fight 
for  admission  was  coming. 

The  childlike  eyes  of  light-headed  Larry  beamed  with 
happiness. 

It  was  six-thirty.  The  moving-pictures  were  scheduled 
to  commence  at  seven  and  end  at  nine.  After  that,  at 
nine,  was  to  come  the  dance  in  the  basement  of  the 
Church. 

"I  could  open  the  doors  and  take  care  of  about  a  hun- 
dredth part  of  that  crowd,"  thought  Larry,  "but  then  the 
others  would  go  home.  It's  better  advertising  to  keep 
them  all  waiting  out  there  as  long  as  I  can.  Then  more 
people  will  tack  on  to  the  edge  of  that  mob  and  try  to 
jimmy  their  way  through  it.  That's  the  way  the  theatres 
do  it,"  he  remembered.  "Keep  them  waiting  outside, 
with  the  house  empty,  until  the  last  minute.  Use  them 
as  advertisements  to  make  passers-by  believe  that  there 
is  a  tremendously  successful  show  inside.  I'll  just  do 
that,  and  hope  they  don't  shove  the  Church  out  of  News- 
paper Row  in  the  meantime,  or  try  to  break  in  by  way 
of  the  steeple." 

ii 

For  fifteen  minutes  the  Rector  had  been  trying  to  dig 
a  way  through  the  throng  for  himself  and  for  Margaret 
and  Joan.  Finally  he  was  recognized. 

"Make  way  for  the  Rector,"  bawled  a  burly  champion 


136  Unconventional  Joan 

of  the  privilege  of  the  pastor  to  be  given  a  clear  right  of 
way  into  his  own  Church.  In  the  uproar  nobody  heard 
the  fellow,  except  his  nearest  neighbour.  For  the  twen- 
tieth time  the  Rector  with  Margaret  and  Joan  clinging 
to  him,  found  themselves  shunted  back  up  North  Street. 
The  Church,  a  block  away,  might  just  as  well  have  been 
in  Palestine  so  far  as  his  hope  of  getting  into  it  was 
concerned.  He  stood,  with  the  girls,  speculating  on  a 
plan  of  attack. 

"Honk-screech-shriek-honk-honk!"  bellowed  the  pow- 
erful horn  of  Peggy  Pogo's  automobile,  rounding  the 
corner  on  its  way  with  her  and  her  party  of  friends  to 
the  Church. 

"Hello  there,"  shouted  Peggy  to  the  Rector  and  the 
girls,  "aren't  you  going  to  the  movies  at  the  Church?" 
She  stopped  her  car  beside  the  disconsolate  trio. 

"They  won't  let  us  through,"  mournfully  vouchsafed 
the  Rector. 

"They  won't  let  you,"  scornfully  echoed  Peggy. 
"Well,  we'll  show  'em.  Hop  in  here,  you  three.  Make 
room  for  'em,  girls.  Trixie,  you  just  let  the  Rector 
sit  in  your  lap  for  a  minute.  Say,  believe  me,  don't  wait 
for  people  to  give  you  what  you  want.  Take  it  away 
from  'em,  like  this." 

She  backed  her  car  for  a  block  to  get  a  good  speeding 
start.  Scorching  on  the  return  she  reached  the  edge  of 
the  crowd  going  at  forty  miles  an  hour. 

"Honk,  whine,  honk,  yell,  honk,  bellow,  honk,  howl," 
warned  the  horn. 

"Crack,  crack,  crack,  crack,  crack,  crack,"  threatened 
the  "cut-out." 

Stampeding  sidewise  like  terrorized  cattle,   crushing 


Unconventional  Joan  137 

each  other  recklessly  the  Rector's  prodigiously  swollen 
congregation  opened  up  a  groove  for  Peggy's  bullet, 
which  tore  through  it  and  stopped  abruptly  in  front  of 
the  Church. 

"There's  a  pastor  fcr  you,"  commented  the  young  man 
who  opened  the  door  of  the  car,  "delivered  direct  to  the 
door  of  his  Church  by  a  bodyguard  of  queens  as  beautiful 
as  any  on  the  screen,"  he  added,  as  he  helped  the  Rector 
out  of  Trixie's  lap. 

Ill 

Standing  in  the  vestibule  of  his  Church  to  greet  his 
parishioners,  the  Rector  gave  Larry  the  order  to  open 
the  doors.  In  an  instant  the  human  battering-ram  had 
hammered  him  and  the  sexton  up  against  the  chancel 
rail,  and  in  thirty-four  seconds  the  pews,  gallery,  aisles 
and  window  sills  were  jammed. 

Never  before  had  people  gone  to  Church  in  such  a 
hurry. 

The  only  two  features  of  their  entrance  on  this  occa- 
sion that  resembled  their  entrance  on  normal  occasions 
were  the  preference  for  rear  seats,  and  their  silence. 
Movies  methodically  muffle  and  muzzle  the  multitudes 
that  are  to  be  mesmerized  by  them,  by  curt  curtain  com- 
ments on  the  strict  necessity  of  keeping  quiet,  so  that 
if  you  do  not  like  a  picture,  or  resent  its  insinuations,  you 
hardly  dare  say  so  to  yourself,  much  less  mention  it  to 
your  neighbour.  Whether  the  majority  of  these  people 
had  ever  been  to  Church  before  or  not,  their  moving- 
picture  experience  taught  them  to  be  so  quiet  that  every 
word  of  the  earnest  Rector's  devout  prayer  was  heard  by 
each  one  present. 


138  Unconventional  Joan 

"Omniscient  Father,  through  whose  Divine  Son  we 
ignorant  ones  of  earth  have  been  taught  by  parables,  we 
remember  that  the  Master  was  wont  to  appeal  to  our 
ignorant  hearts  both  through  our  blinded  eyes  and 
through  our  deafened  ears.  We  remember  that  He 
not  only  spoke  to  our  ears  about  the  mustard  seed,  but 
that  He  pointed  it  out  by  the  roadside  to  our  eyes. 

"Your  incompetent  servant,  responsible  to  you  for  the 
morals  of  this  parish,  having  tried,  with  lessening  results, 
to  carry  Your  commandments  to  the  hearts  of  his  parish- 
ioners solely  through  their  ears,  by  word  of  mouth,  at- 
tempts to-night  most  humbly  to  imitate  Your  Divine  Son's 
method  of  teaching  by  appealing  to  the  hearts  of  those 
gathered  here,  through  their  eyes  as  well  as  through  their 
ears,  and  earnestly  begs  Your  blessing  upon  this  en- 
deavour. 

"A  picture  of  life,  as  it  is  unfortunately  lived,  con- 
taining much  that  is  good  and  much  that  is  bad,  will  be 
reflected  above  Your  altar,  to  make  its  ocular  appeal  for 
the  good,  and  against  the  bad,  to  the  hearts  of  this  con- 
gregation. When  the  moving-picture  has  been  com- 
pleted, the  members  of  the  parish  will  be  requested  to 
comment  upon  both  the  good  and  the  bad.  In  this  way, 
Your  weak  servant  hopes  to-night  to  reach  the  hearts  of 
his  flock  with  Your  Divine  message,  after  the  manner 
used  by  Your  Divine  Son  in  His  parables,  which  were 
pictures  of  actual  life  like  that  to  be  exhibited  here  to- 
night. 

"Kind  Father,  we  recognize  that  our  effort  has  the 
semblance  of  a  radical  innovation;  but  so  too  was  it  a 
radical  innovation  when  Your  Divine  Son  flogged  the 
money-changers  who  encroached  upon  the  Temple,  and 


Unconventional  Joan  139 

with  Your  Divine  assistance  we  hope  to  make  our  effort 
redound  to  Your  greater  honour  and  glory.  Amen." 

The  Rector's  earnestness,  and  the  scope  of  his  project, 
thrilled  and  frightened  those  of  the  moving-picture 
theatre-owners  who  had  managed  to  get  in.  They  found 
themselves  confronted  by  a  man  and  a  movement  deter- 
mined to  dimmish,  if  not  ruin,  their  business. 

One  of  the  ushers  of  the  Church  had  cleared  a  way 
to  the  organ  for  the  lady  organist.  The  Rector  nodded 
to  her  that  he  was  ready  for  the  music  for  the  picture. 
She  was  his  talented  ally  in  all  his  endeavours.  In  this 
particular  instance  the  rugged  strength  of  the  usher  was 
invaluable  in  handling  the  crowd ;  a  less  sturdy  man  could 
not  possibly  have  controlled  the  people.  He  was  one  of 
the  Church's  Sunday  School  class  of  swarthy  South  Sea 
Island  proselytes. 

Before  the  Rector's  touching  prayer,  a  man  who  had 
got  in  with  a  basket,  one  of  the  well-known  vendors  in 
Newspaper  Row,  was  intending  to  ask  Larry's  permis- 
sion "to  sell  chocolates  to  the  audience."  Before  the 
minister's  prayer  ended  he  had  sensed  the  sacred  serious- 
ness of  the  occasion,  and  was  selling  his  product  to  the 
crowd  outside  that  waited  patiently  in  the  hope  of  a 
second  showing  of  the  picture  at  nine  o'clock. 

Never  had  the  Church  looked  so  attractive  to  its  occu- 
pants. It  was  going  to  be  a  popular  place  after  this. 
Everyone  present  agreed  upon  that.  The  Record  could 
fight  the  project  as  much  as  it  pleased,  but  so  much  the 
worse  for  the  Record. 

IV 

Larry  turned  out  the  lights,   the  organist  began  to 


140  Unconventional  Joan 

play  her  hymn,  and  a  flood  of  light  illumined  the  screen. 

The  introductory  section  of  film  repeated  in  bulletin 
form  the  substance  of  the  Rector's  plan  to  analyze  the 
"Feature-picture,"  after  it  had  been  shown.  Following 
the  "Feature-picture"  would  be  exhibited  a  "Comedy" 
to  emphasize  the  sunshine  of  life.  And  at  nine  o'clock, 
after  the  picture,  in  the  Church  basement,  "Miss  Peggy 
Pogo  would  entertain  with  a  dance."  Peggy's  "Pop" 
had  graciously  supplied  this  last  section  of  film,  with 
Peggy's  face  on  it. 

Larry,  watching  the  picture  with  increasing  disgust, 
called  it  "a  typical  specimen  of  the  screen-garbage  dished 
up  under  the  conviction  that  human  beings  have  the 
appetites  of  vultures."  Talking  about  it  afterwards,  he 
said: 

"To  make  a  moving-picture,  take  a  tiny  heroine,  who 
is  a  wayward  daughter,  introduce  her  to  a  millionaire, 
who  souses  her  with  cocktails  in  a  beautiful  den,  bring 
in  Convict  Bill  to  the  rescue,  and  be  sure  to  work  it  out 
to  a  happy  ending." 

As  the  various  scenes  in  the  picture  shifted  about  on 
the  screen,  the  organist  skilfully  displayed  her  versatility 
by  harmonizing  the  action  of  the  drama  with  popular 
melodies  sufficiently  well  known  to  the  congregation  to 
produce  in  their  hearts  the  particular  emotion  invited  by 
the  picture. 

This  medley  of  airs,  starting  from  the  hymn,  included 
strains  from  "Naughty,  naughty  Nellie,"  "Kiss  me  kid 
and  kill  me,"  "Tell  it  to  Bill,"  "We  should  worry," 
"Where  do  we  go  from  here?"  and  other  inspired 
stanzas  not  found  in  the  hymn  book,  although  well 
known  to  the  beautiful  organist,  as  the  Rector  realized 


Unconventional  Joan  141 

in  great  surprise,  while  peering  through  the  darkness 
for  Larry,  meaning  to  send  him  with  a  message  that  a 
"more  dignified  selection  of  music  might  be  more  in 
keeping  with  the  atmosphere  of  the  Church."  But  Larry 
did  not  appear. 


"Before  the  lighter  phase  of  life  is  reflected  upo*n  the 
screen,  we  will  first  analyze  this  serious  picture  which  we 
have  just  seen,"  announced  the  Rector. 

"We  will  try  to  study  it  together.  We  will  pick  out 
the  good  and  also  the  bad.  Let  us  begin  with  the  bad 
and  end  with  the  good,  so  that  our  last  thoughts  may  be 
pleasant  ones.  Will  someone  in  the  congregation  please 
stand  up  and  fearlessly  pick  out  what  to  him  or  her 
seemed  bad  in  the  picture?" 

Nobody  rose.  Nobody  spoke.  It  is  possible  that  no- 
body even  did  any  thinking.  But  everybody  was  intently 
listening.  And  all  stared  vacantly,  like  sheep. 

"You  must  not  be  afraid,"  said  the  Rector  encourag- 
ingly. "You  must  not  be  afraid  to  think  for  yourselves 
and  stand  up  for  your  convictions.  Modesty  is  not  in- 
consistent with  a  manly  utterance  of  your  opinions.  To 
be  always  passive  is  to  be  weak.  Now  then  let  us  have 
several  of  you  bid  for  the  opportunity -to  speak  first. 
Don't  mind  me.  This  is  a  family  discussion.  Just  talk 
and  act  naturally,  as  if  I  were  not  even  present,  and  as 
if  you  were  chatting  among  yourselves." 

He  was  trying  very  hard  to  elicit  their  views,  and  his 
efforts  were  generously  rewarded. 

A  dozen  people  stood  up  in  different  parts  of  the 
Church. 


142  Unconventional  Joan 

"There  weren't  enough  'close-ups/  "  ventured  one. 

"There  were  too  many  'fade-outs',"  quickly  added  a 
young  blond. 

"The  leading  man's  make-up  was  too  thin,"  piped 
another  woman. 

"The  leading  lady  doesn't  know  how  to  use  a  lip- 
stick," retorted  a  man. 

"l*he  scenario  sequence  is  loose,"  insisted  a  literary 
spinster. 

"The  hero  and  heroine  didn't  iris  out  in  a  kiss,"  pouted 
a  twelve  year  old  miss. 

"Who's  Iris  ?"  enquired  a  fellow  in  a  window. 

"Too  short  for  a  five-reeler.  Ought  'a  been  a  two- 
reeler,"  sang  out  a  chap  whose  clothes  suggested  stage 
experience. 

"If  the  muts  who  made  that  picture,  or  thought  they 
made  it,  had  had  a  wiser  film-cutter,  and  an  experienced 
camera  man,  and  up-to-date  sets,  and  better  lighting, 
they  could  have  got  by,  but — " 

This  aggressive  film  agent  was  promptly  interrupted 
by  a  competing  film  agent,  who  bawled: 

"It  was  absolutely  rotten.  Now  I  have  a  picture  that 
I'd  like  to  have  you — " 

"The  operator  in  the  balcony  ran  it  too  fast,"  broke  in 
the  fellow  in  the  window  who  wanted  to  meet  "Iris." 

The  operator  leaned  over  the  balcony,  leered  in  the 
direction  of  the  window  and  roared: 

"You  ain't  got  experience  enough  to  know  that  a  film 
runs  itself.  It  was  under-cranked  by  the  amateur  who 
took  it,  that's  what's  wrong  with  it." 

Historically,  this  was  probably  the  first  time  that  movie 
patrons  had  enjoyed  the  opportunity  of  talking  back  at  a 


Unconventional  Joan  143 

picture.  They  took  full  advantage  of  the  opportunity. 
In  genuine  "family"  style  they  literally  tore  it  to  pieces. 
With  it  went  the  entire  moving-picture  industry.  Pic- 
tures were  condemned  to  eternal  obloquy.  Everything 
and  everybody  connected  with  the  screen  was  hacked  and 
smashed  and  flattened  contemptuously. 

"And  yet,"  commented  Larry,  "the  barbarians  want 
more  of  the  same  kind  of  films." 

"Shoot  on  the  comedy,"  drawled  a  weary  voice. 

Larry  thought  that  was  a  "timely"  suggestion  and  did 
so. 

VI 

The  Rector  was  hopelessly  realizing,  more  keenly  than 
ever,  what  a  gulf  separated  him  from  his  flock.  To 
bridge  it  meant  undoing  the  work  of  years  of  demoraliz- 
ing propaganda,  which  had  skilfully  and  expensively  sub- 
stituted conventions  for  morals,  imitation  for  individ- 
uality. His  parishioners  were  puppets  pulled  by  strings, 
in  the  hands  of  masters  powerful  enough  to  make  them 
all  move  alike,  talk  alike  and  even  think  alike.  Their 
behaviour  was  as  farcical  as  a  Punch  and  Judy  show. 
And  he  had  been  presumptuously  crediting  them  with 
intelligence.  He  began  to  wonder  how  to  cure  their 
depraved  minds.  His  thoughts  wandered  away  from  the 
Comedy  picture  flickering  over  the  screen.  He  pondered 
over  such  concepts  as  mental  aberration,  hallucination, 
fanaticism,  delusion,  infatuation,  hysteria.  In  place  of 
the  picture  on  the  screen,  he  began  dimly  to  see  a  picture 
of  an  immense  asylum,  built  just  like  his  Church,  with 
its  chattering  inmates,  and  Larry  bossing  them  around. 
Suddenly  a  man  laughed  loudly.  It  was  a  hoarse  guffaw. 


144  Unconventional  Joan 

"Somebody  in  one  of  the  wards,"  thought  the  Rector, 
in  his  abstraction. 

The  laughter  began  again. 

"What's  so  funny?"  enquired  a  voice. 

"Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,"  replied  the  laugher,  unre- 
strainedly. "I'm  laughin'  at  'em  tryin'  to  be  funny,  ha, 
ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha!" 

Cackling  bursts  of  laughter  from  everybody  shook  the 
building,  and  the  film  ended. 

"They're  mad!"  exclaimed  the  Rector.  "My  people 
are  mad!" 

"Dance  in  the  basement,"  flashed  a  slide  on  the  screen, 
with  Peggy  Pogo's  face  adorning  it. . 

The  childlike  eyes  of  crack-brained  Larry  darkened 
with  disgust 


CHAPTER  VIII 
i 

PEGGY  "made  good"  with  the  dance. 
•*•  Promptly  at  nine  o'clock  automobiles  began  to 
arrive  at  the  basement  door  of  the  Church,  driven  by 
selected  male  members  of  Peggy's  set,  to  each  of  whom 
had  been  issued  special  tickets  of  admission.  To  these 
gentlemen  had  been  left  the  privilege  of  bringing  their 
own  lady  guests. 

These  were  recruited  in  various  ways.  Local  stages 
contributed  some,  manicure-shops  were  represented, 
Pogo's  usherettes  gladly  accepted,  cloak-room  brigan- 
desses  condescended,  some  were  steady-regulars  of  their 
escorts,  and  others  were  the  kind  that  stand  at  street-car 
stations  at  nine  in  the  evening,  but  never  take  a  car  until 
one  with  rubber  tyres  picks  them  up. 

These  favoured  participants  were  permitted  to  enter 
ahead  of  the  less  experienced,  and  were  depended  upon 
to  show  the  others  just  how  a  successful  up-to-date  dance 
is  conducted. 

II 

Larry  leered  at  the  females  of  all  ages  and  sizes,  as 
they  seethed  and  surged  in  through  the  entrance,  strug- 
gling and  pushing  and  shoving  to  reach  a  room  off  the 
main  floor  labelled  "Ladies'  Cloakroom."  Whenever  the 
door  of  that  room  opened,  he  observed  a  white  mist,  like 
a  cloud,  escape  from  it,  and  a  very  delightful  aroma, 
sweet-smelling  and  heavy,  began  to  pervade  the  atmos- 
phere. 

Peggy  joined  the  throng  crowding  inside  this  room, 

145 


146  Unconventional  Joan 

and  pushed  and  shoved  with  the  best.  They  trod  on  her 
toes  and  she  trod  on  theirs.  She  seemed  to  care  nothing 
for  their  angry  glances  and  sarcastic  tongues. 

As  she  struggled  to  penetrate  the  jostling  mass  of 
femininity,  the  air  was  suddenly  torn  by  a  violent  sound, 
loud  and  vibrating.  Near  her  a  girl  who  was  checking 
her  corsets  exclaimed: 

"There  goes  the  orchestra." 

Another  who  had  successfully  pigeon-holed  what 
Larry  termed  her  "hug-hindering"  stays,  remarked: 

"I  am  all  ready  for  that  one-step,"  and  disappeared. 

"There  won't  be  any  one-step  until  I  get  out  there  and 
lead  the  opening  march,"  decisively  explained  Peggy  to 
the  others,  as  she  made  a  final  dive  through  the  group, 
opened  her  vanity-bag,  and  attacked  her  nose. 

She  had  succeeded  in  reaching  the  mirror. 

Larry,  looking  inward  past  the  opening  door,  re- 
marked : 

"The  charge  of  the  Powder  Brigade." 

Ill 

Outside  the  Church,  looking  through  the  basement  win- 
dows, those  who  could  not  get  inside  fought  to  satisfy 
their  dazzled  eyes  with  a  splendour  that  was  fascinating. 

The  hall  had  been  decorated  lavishly.  The  pillars  were 
wreathed  with  ribbons.  Streamers  hung  from  the  ceil- 
ing. The  light  of  hundreds  of  bulbs  was  softly-subdued 
by  vari-coloured  silken  shades  fashioned  to  represent 
birds,  animals  and  flowers.  The  rays  were  red  and  blue, 
orange  and  violet.  On  the  walls  hung  pictures  of  the 
reigning  screen-beauties,  and  the  dance  cards  bore,  in 
gilded  letters  the  motto: 


Unconventional  Joan  147 

"It  is  sweet  to  be  desired." 

On  the  dance  programme  the  first  one-step  was  set 
down  to  the  tune  of  "Give  Me  Thy  Lips,"  the  first  waltz 
was  "There  is  Nothing  in  the  World  but  Love,"  and  so 
on  for  the  rest. 

In  an  instant  after  Peggy  had  given  the  signal  for  the 
opening  dance  the  hall  was  seething,  with  the  faces  of 
the  dancers  for  the  most  part  sickly  pale,  but  here  and 
there  among  the  Caucasians  spectators  was  the  dark  face 
of  one  of  the  Church's  South  Sea  Island  savages  in  the 
process  of  being  "civilized." 

The  city's  future  captains  of  industry,  exclusively  oc- 
cupied for  the  present  with  their  petting  parties,  outside 
of  which  they  enjoyed  quite  effortless  lives,  afforded 
Larry  glimpses  of  the  important  contents  of  their  valu- 
able minds,  through  the  snatches  of  conversation  that 
were  audible  as  they  whirled  their  mentally  stimulating 
partners  past  him. 

"  ....  so  Dot  and  Bert  had  broken  off  .  ..." 
"  .  .  .  .  her  Dad  cut  her  allowance  .  .  .  .  ' 
"  .  .  .  .  likes  her  cigarettes  better  .  .  .  .  ' 
"  .  .  .  .  swellest  place  for  a  .  .  .  .  ' 
"  .  .  .  .  too  darned  slow  to  suit  me  .  .  .  .  ' 
"Too  darned  bad  you're  celebrating  the  Armistice  to- 
night before  getting  acquainted  with  some  swifter  things 
'at  the  Front,'  "  thought  Larry. 

He  didn't  know  which  he  despised  most,  those  young 
"sharks"  in  quest  of  their  human  prey,  or  the  "ripples" 
among  which  they  splashed  around.  Being  male,  he  was 
greatly  engrossed  by  the  latter. 

They  were,  all  of  them,  more  or  less  perfect  duplicates 
of  Peggy.  What  they  wore  seemed  to  Larry  to  be  meant 


148  Unconventional  Joan 

to  attract  attention  rather  than  to  cover  their  bodies. 
They  stepped  along  in  a  thrilling  state  of  semi-nudity. 

For  months  Larry  had  been  measuring  the  upward 
retreat  of  the  sleeves  worn  by  them,  as  well  as  the  down- 
ward retreat  of  their  blouses.  When  it  was  the  style  to 
wear  dresses  eight  inches  from  the  ground  he  noted  the 
"ripples"  put  theirs  at  twelve.  When  styles  followed 
the  "ripples"  to  sixteen  they  put  theirs  to  the  knee,  re- 
gardless of  how  far  the  knees  were  from  the  ground. 
When  normal  women  wore  long  hair  they  bobbed  theirs. 
It  looked  as  if  they  would  now  have  to  shave  in  order  to 
get  a  real  effect. 

Their  individual  characters  were  X-rayed  by  Larry  as 
they  revealed  them  through  their  faces.  He  saw  the  thin 
lips  of  curiosity,  weakness  and  ill-temper ;  the  pale  cheeks 
of  the  conspirator;  the  small  nose  of  the  back-biter;  the 
vacillating  eyes  of  the  coquette. 

The  pouting  lips  and  dimples  and  slightly  celestial  nose 
of  Mildred,  tapering  somewhat  at  the  tip,  told  him  she 
was  a  sorceress,  but  he  had  to  admit  that  her  pout  was  ir- 
resistible, and  that  there  was  charm  in  her  dimples. 

The  hazel  eyes  of  Beatrice,  and  her  profusion  of  chest- 
nut hair,  convinced  him  that  she  was  nine-tenths  emo- 
tional imagination  and  one-tenth  intelligence,  but  as  she 
passed  him  and  scorchingly  remarked  to  her  partner, 
"You  are  dense!"  he  became  painfully  aware  of  his  own 
inferior  mental  equipment. 

Adelia,  with  fair  hair  and  forget-me-not  eyes,  com- 
pliant and  clinging,  fluffy  and  frilly,  exhibited  a  small 
mouth,  with  dimples  at  the  corners,  and  evidenced  to  him 
a  doll-like  vapid  mind.  But  he  overheard  a  fellow  re- 
mark of  her: 


Unconventional  Joan  149 

"She  is  101  per  cent  feminity  and  a  first-class  chum." 

One  particular  snatch  of  psychological  chit-chat  espe- 
cially interested  Larry. 

"It's  nature,"  excusingly  observed  a  scarlet  lady. 

"Better  to  be  natural  than  hypocritical,"  comforted 
her  companion. 

"Prudes  who  criticize  betray  thereby  their  secret  lik- 
ing," added  Amoretta,  with  elaborate  finality. 

Larry  could  scarcely  believe  his  eyes  as  he  scrutinized 
the  woman  and  recognized  a  notoriety  of  Newspaper 
Row,  golden  haired,  sweetly  pretty,  and,  though  divorced 
from  two  husbands,  possessing  the  face  and  look  of  a 
virgin,  one  of  the  vilest  women  on  earth,  celebrated  for 
her  fabulous  debaucheries.  But  closer  observation  of  the 
crowd  revealed  that  still  other  well-known  ladies  of  un- 
satisfied emotions  had  similarly  contributed  their  beauti- 
ful forms  as  an  ornament  to  the  occasion. 

Amoretta's  partner  was  one  of  those  tall,  distinguished, 
good-looking  old  egg-heads,  so  called  because  of  the  "high 
forehead  running  through  from  the  face  to  the  back  of 
the  neck,  with  hair  on  both  sides  of  it."  Larry  saw  him 
desert  her  for  one  of  the  youngest  ripples,  whose  best 
boast  at  the  end  of  the  season,  he  calculated,  would  be 
that  she  could  hang  up  a  bigger  row  of  baldheads  than 
anyone  in  her  set. 

Larry's  amazement  suddenly  turned  into  partial  par- 
alysis, as  the  Rector's  dusky  South  Sea  Island  usher  and 
the  organist  fox-trotted  into  view.  Annette's  form,  at 
once  slender  and  full,  was  crushed  against  Woolooloo's 
body,  her  arms  and  limbs  entwined  by  his  own.  Larry 
watched  him  looking  downward  at  her  as  if  he  wished 
to  gorge  himself  with  the  sight  of  her,  burning  her  eyes 


150  Unconventional  Joan 

with  his  as  she  looked  up  at  him  with  desire.  And  as 
Larry  stared,  the  dance  momentarily  stopped,  and  Woo- 
looloo's  glance  slipped  from  Annette's  face  to  her  neck 
and  bare  arms,  fondling  her  shapely  outlines — openly 
devouring  her  with  his  answering  desire. 

Joan  and  Margaret  hurried  away,  instinctively  fearful 
of  defiling  their  eyes  with  the  sight  of  one  of  the  popular 
shameful  orgies  of  the  times. 

IV 

Tom  Manly  wedged  his  way  into  the  hall,  with  the  help 
of  a  press-badge,  took  one  look,  remarked  to  himself, 
"Peggy  has  made  good,"  and  went  away. 

Wilfrid  Keating  entered  a  few  minutes  later,  with 
Victor  Pogo  accompanying  him,  and  after  they  had  both 
watched  for  a  few  minutes,  Pogo  observed: 

"Peggy  made  good,  all  right,  maybe  I  didn't  fully  un- 
derstand her.  Deep  girl!  Wise  girl!  For  her  'Pop'!" 

Keating  made  no  reply. 

The  Rector  approached  the  editor  of  the  Record,  re- 
straining himself  with  difficulty,  and  remonstrated: 

"Your  paper  could  stop  this  sort  of  thing.  Why  don't 
you?  Why  don't  you  ever  stop  anything  immoral?  We 
couldn't  have  such  an  exhibition  here  as  this  unless  it 
were  conventional — the  usual  sort  of  thing — promoted  by 
you  and  your  advertisers.  You  are  killing  our  nation's 
faith  by  countenancing  the  moral  destruction  of  our 
youth.  Youth  no  longer  has  faith  in  anything.  You  are 
killing  the  nation  itself !"  He  was  furious. 

Keating  made  no  reply. 

The  Rector,  fearful  that  he  might  lose  control  and 
strike  the  editor,  hurried  upstairs  into  the  Church,  to 


Unconventional  Joan  151 

pray  and  prepare  a  "never  to  be  forgotten"  sermon  to 
the  revellers  on  the  spot,  in  the  very  midst  of  their  car- 
ousal. 

"Forgiving  Father,"  he  prayed,  "I  confess  a  miserable 
failure  of  my  efforts  this  evening  to  make  Your  Church 
more  acceptable  and  helpful  to  the  souls  entrusted  to  me, 
and  I  humbly  ask  for  help. 

"The  moving-pictures  have  shown-  my  people  to  be 
mentally  depraved.  The  social  gathering  downstairs  has 
£hown  me,  as  I  never  comprehended  it  before,  the  depths 
of  their  moral  degradation.  I  fear  that  their  reason  has 
been  undermined.  Your  helping  gift  to  them  of  their 
conscience  has  been  so  inoculated  with  poison  that  their 
instinct  has  become  confounded  with  sensation.  The 
soul  within  them  has  been  killed.  It  is  a  terrifying  ad- 
mission to  make,  O  God,  but  our  people  are  headed  for. 
the  pit  of  impotent  and  inferior  races.  They  do  not 
realize  that  the  nation  is  perishing. 

"Good  God,  help  me  to  save  my  people." 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  tried  to  think  what 
he  should  say  to  them. 


Downstairs  Peggy  had  announced  a  prize  to  be  pre- 
sented to  the  couple  who  danced  best. 

The  winning  couple  would  be  selected  from  the  entire 
gathering,  and  be  allowed  the  opportunity  of  giving  an 
exhibition  dance,  after  which  a  suitable  prize  would  be 
awarded  to  them. 

Peggy  encouragingly  added  that  the  prize  was  a  par- 
ticularly suitable  one,  because  she  had  "picked  it  out 
herself,"  and  urged  all  to  "do  their  best,"  which  Larry, 


152  Unconventional  Joan 

listening-  to  her,  interpreted  to  mean  "do  their  dirtiest." 
The  lights  were  dimmed,  and  atomizers  sprayed  an  in- 
toxicating perfume  over  the  dancers  to  exhilirate  them, 
and  excite  their  blood,  already  on  fire.  Cheek  to  cheek, 
with  mist  covered  eyes,  Woolooloo  and  Annette  danced, 
and  won. 

The  savage  spirit  in  Woolooloo,  to  which  physical 
beauty  spoke  with  more  eloquence  than  anything  else  on 
earth,  lit  up  his  dark  eyes  with  such  a  splendour  of  satis- 
faction as  only  the  passionate  enjoyment  of  his  heart's 
desire  could  provoke,  and  the  feelings  of  the  women 
present  reacted  warmly  to  his  barbaric  influence  upon 
them,  as  they  applauded  him  loudly  and  looked  at  him 
longingly,  which  provoked  Larry  into  angrily  remarking: 
"The  race  is  retrograding  to  the  level  of  the  missing 
link." 

VI 

As  Woolooloo  and  Annette  began  their  exhibition 
dance,  before  receiving  Peggy's  prize,  intense  delight 
was  reflected  upon  several  hundred  faces,  not  only  near- 
ing  stupidity,  Larry  thought,  but  reaching  it  utterly. 

The  music  for  the  dance  began  with  a  disordered  and 
wild  outburst  of  dissolute  plaints.  Woolooloo  passion- 
ately drew  Annette  nearer  to  him  in  a  series  of  caresses 
increasingly  accentuated  and  provoked  by  the  pulsating 
strains  of  the  orchestra,  and  began  to  astound  her  with 
endearing  words  flung  from  the  depths  of  his  soul, 
crudely  resonant  as  the  music  and  as  thrilling  as  wine. 
Annette's  pulse  beat  oppressively  in  her  hands  and 
temples.  Then  the  music  alluringly  changed.  Dulcet, 
deeptoned  melodies,  bewitchingly  refreshing,  softened 


Unconventional  Joan  153 

the  effect  upon  her  of  his  words.  But  again  the  feeling 
seized  her  that  she  was  flying  into  some  abyss.  Down, 
down,  she  was  sinking,  perishing!  Pleadingly,  entic- 
ingly, the  soft  and  mellow  call  of  the  flute  quieted  her 
fears.  Woolooloo's  breath  began  to  blow  around  her 
nearer  and  nearer,  as  he  lifted  her  along.  She  began  to 
resist  him.  She  felt  her  blood  boiling  and  a  remnant  of 
indignation  flared  up  in  her  soul.  But  the  fascinating 
harmonies  of  a  sweet  voiced  violin  captivated  her  senses 
and  subdued  her.  Her  power  of  resistance  deserted  her 
more  and  more.  Something  cajolingly  told  her  it  was  too 
late ;  that  one  who  had  been  so  embraced,  whose  heart  had 
beaten  as  hers  was  beating,  through  whose  frame  such 
tremors  had  passed,  was  lost  beyond  recovery.  Wooloo- 
loo  and  the  music  were  awakening  something  within  her 
*rom  a  sleep.  It  wanted  to  be  awakened.  She  hesitated 
to  have  it  aroused.  Some  new  kind  of  rapture  was  en- 
folding her,  in  which  acute  enjoyment  and  delight  were 
mingled  with  intense  anxiety  and  fear.  The  straight  and 
strange  gaze  which  she  leveled  at  Woolooloo  revealed 
alike  her  trepidation  and  delight.  The  heart-beats  in  her 
pulse  and  temples  and  breast  raced  with  her  breathing, 
and  her  mouth  opened  partly  in  wonder  and  partly  for 
relief.  Gradually  the  dominating  roll  of  the  drum,  with 
its  exciting  vibrations  and  the  insinuating  suspensions  of 
its  teasingly  slow  and  measured  beats,  accomplished  her 
submission  to  the  movements  and  fondling  to  which 
Woolooloo  skilfully  subjected  her.  The  luxuriously  in- 
toxicating intonations  of  the  cello  and  the  entrancing 
modulations  of  the  bass  viol  so  harmoniously  accom- 
panied the  strange  words  she  was  hearing  from  his  lips 
for  the  first  time,  that  she  eventually  ceased  to  wish,  from 


154  Unconventional  Joan 

any  motive,  moral  or  otherwise,  to  miss  one  sound  of  his 
voice  or  one  movement  of  his  dance.  Popularized  selec- 
tions of  savage  discord  riotously  disorganized  her  facul- 
ties. Fiery  and  furious  trumpet-calls,  and  clarionets  and 
bugles,  producing  creeps  and  perturbation,  thrills  and 
exultation,  deafened  her  ears  to  the  voice  of  conscience. 
Quivering  guitars,  tingling  mandolins,  tantalizing  tom- 
toms, bells  and  gongs  and  cymbals,  mercilessly  torment- 
ing, torturing  and  subjugating,  drove  her  wildly  on  to  her 
complete  capitulation,  smothering  her  scruples  with  her 
consciousness  that  the  onlookers  of  her  sex  gave  facial 
evidence  of  vicariously  feeling  the  same  thrilling  sensa- 
tions that  she  experienced — "hypocrites,"  Larry  appraised 
them,  "who  complacently  contemplate  but  dishonestly 
disdain  to  stigmatize  filth  by  its  right  name."  At  mo- 
ments Annette  disconcertedly  dropped  her  eyes;  then 
again  she  raised  them  bravely  to  Woolooloo,  as  if  she 
wanted  to  say,  "let  us  go  on,  and  on."  She  felt  the 
heat  that  issued  from  him.  A  kind  of  sweet  weakness, 
faintness  and  f orgetf ulness  seized  her. 

And  her  submission  to  him  began  to  act  on  Woolooloo 
also.  Her  beauty  was  intoxicating  his  senses  and  he  was 
devouring  her.  His  nostrils  dilated.  The  throbbing  of 
his  heart  grew  wilder.  His  breathing  became  shorter. 
His  mind  became  dazed.  He  felt  a  fire  in  his  veins  which 
he  did  not  try  to  extinguish.  Desire  cut  restraint  out  of 
his  will.  The  motions  of  his  limbs  began  to  express  what 
the  popular  dancer  of  the  day  endeavours  to  depict  in 
his  dancing  as  vividly  as  he  can.  It  was  less  a  dance  than 
a  carnal  love  scene,  all  but  complete,  voluptuously  indi- 
cating with  wildest  license  the  paroxysms  of  connubial 
association,  bewitching,  bacchic! 


Unconventional  Joan  155 

In  vain  Annette  turned  away  her  face  to  escape  his  im- 
pending kisses.  Her  breast  heaving  in  full  sight  of  his 
eyes  tempted  him  beyond  all  remnants  of  self-control. 
Bending  her  fiercely  backward  and  downward  beneath 
him,  he  began,  panting,  to  press  his  dark  mouth  upon  hers 
deathly  pale — his  lewd  lips  reddened  her  neck — she 
struggled  in  his  arms — he  covered  her  with  furious  kisses. 

The  child-like  eyes  of  lunatic  Larry  flashed  his  quick 
conception  of  a  "timely"  idea.  He  would  award  a  prize 
of  his  own. 

"Nothing  could  be  more  'suitable'  as  a  prize  for  them," 
he  hurriedly  decided,  as  he  darted  away  and  instantly  re- 
appeared to  present  it  to  them  himself. 

Yes,  he  was  sure,  it  was  "timely"  and  fitting,  and  some- 
thing they  needed  right  away,  and  might  just  as  well  have 
at  once  for  comfort's  sake.  It  was  rather  small,  he  re- 
alized, being  intended  only  for  himself,  but,  under  the 
circumstances,  it  would  accommodate  the  two  of  them. 

So,  to  the  feigned  and  extravagantly  exaggerated  em- 
barrassment of  the  enraptured  onlookers,  who  were 
ecstatically  applauding  Woolooloo  and  Annette,  he  opened 
up  and  placed  before  them  on  the  floor  the  bed  that  Peggy 
Pogo  had  "personally  selected"  and  given  him. 

Keating  led  the  stampede  out  of  the  hall,  and  flew  to 
the  office  of  the  Record. 


CHAPTER  IX 


T  ARRY  lied  to  the  Rector  and  Margaret  and  Joan 
•*-*'  next  morning  at  their  silent  breakfast,  when  he  gave 
them  the  Morning  News  containing  nothing  about  the 
previous  night's  happenings  at  the  Church,  and  told  them 
the  Record  had  not  been  delivered.  The  fact  was  that 
he  was  hiding  it  until  after  Joan  and  Margaret  should 
have  departed,  and  would  then  put  it  in  the  Rector's  study 
for  him  to  read  alone. 

The  first  thing  that  both  Margaret  and  Joan  did,  sep- 
arately, after  parting  at  the  corner,  was  to  buy  a  copy  of 
the  Record.  Margaret  took  her  copy  to  the  book  shop 
where  she  was  hopelessly  carrying  on  her  losing  fight  for 
the  business,  and  Joan  took  her  copy  to  the  loft  where  she 
used  to  read  the  morning  papers  and  have  breakfast  with 
Jerry. 

The  Record's  conspicuous  article  on  the  Rector's 
"Shapely  Limb  Contest"  shocked  and  challenged  her  to 
an  extent  that  editor  Keating  had  not  calculated  upon. 

"This  very  morning,  at  the  very  start  of  their  day, 
thousands  of  young  girls  are  being  affected,  whether  they 
know  it  or  not,  by  the  tone  of  this  article,"  she  reminded 
herself.  "Subconsciously,  their  moral  plane  must  sink 
towards  the  level  of  what  their  minds  are  fed  on.  It  is 
wicked !  and  somehow  I  am  going  to  get  it  stopped !" 

She  put  her  foot  down  on  it — the  little  mother  of  the 
tea-shop — it  must  stop! 

She  did  not  know  how — but  it  must  stop! 

The  initial  emotion  of  her  life  reasserting  itself — the 
propensity  to  do  what  her  mother  would  have  done — to 

156 


Unconventional  Joan  157 

do  what  all  mothers  would  do — stop  it — protect  their 
own. 

The  only  and  absorbing  ambition  she  ever  experienced 
— "to  be  like  her  mother" — until  Jerry  came.  Likely  to 
be  her  absorbing  aspiration  once  again,  now  that  Jerry 
had  gone.  Something  had  to  take  his  place.  Something 
must  at  once  be  an  outlet  for  all  the  hurting,  pent-up 
emotion  of  her  heart.  Not  Tom — she  felt  sure — except 
to  mother  him — to  help  him.  Not  anybody  any  more, 
she  feared— except  just  to  mother  them — and  help  them. 

The  little  mother  of  the  tea-shop— on  guard  again. 

II 

The  first  important  event  at  the  loft,  on  this  Tuesday 
morning  following  the  dance,  was  the  disbanding  of 
Joan's  army  to  appease  the  police. 

All  her  forces  were  refused  admission,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  Paregoric,  who  was  permitted  to  come  in  and 
stay  in  all  the  morning.  The  homely  fatness  and  towzled 
shagginess  of  the  mongrel  influenced  Joan  in  her  de- 
cision that  the  other,  better-looking  dogs  stood  more 
chance  of  finding  someone  to  love  them. 

But  the  others  must  have  sensitively  resented  the  selec- 
tion of  one  of  their  species  so  obviously  inferior  to  them- 
selves, for  they  set  up  a  protest  of  howls  outside  the 
door;  Paregoric  vindictively  answering  from  within,  se- 
cure in  the  protection  of  the  dividing  door;  but  when 
Joan  opened  it  to  stamp  her  foot  at  the  noisy  gang  the 
favourite  judiciously  took  refuge  behind  her,  until  the 
army  was  in  full  flight  down  the  stairs,  when  it  was  quite 
safe  to  take  a  bold  stand  at  the  top  of  the  staircase,  and 
bark  derision  into  the  ears  of  the  retreating  company. 


158  Unconventional  Joan 

The  second  important  event  was  the  decision  made  by 
Joan  towards  the  end  of  the  first  day's  attempt  to  carry 
out  Jerry's  unstarted  test,  to  call  on  Keating,  and  speak 
her  mind  to  him — administer  his  needed  spanking! 

There  were  times  during  the  day  when  she  could  have 
shouted  at  him  in  anger  through  the  wall  that  separated 
his  editorial  rooms  from  the  loft,  had  he  been  there,  but 
she  knew  he  would  not  arrive  before  six  o'clock.  The 
long  wait  cooled  her  indignation  and  disposed  her  to  use 
with  the  editor  of  the  Record  the  best  weapon  in  a 
woman's  armoury — petition.  Remembering  her  appeal 
to  Tom  Manly,  and  recalling  that  his  paper  had  been  sub- 
sequently withheld  from  attacking  the  Rector,  she  felt 
confident  of  being  able  to  plead  with  Keating  with  equal 
success. 

Passing  for  a  moment  into  the  crowd  of  weary  girls, 
buying  their  evening  portion  of  moral-poison  from  the 
news-boys,  her  heart  went  out  to  them  with  all  the 
mother-love  of  which  it  was  capable.  With  her  solicitude 
about  their  subjection  to  their  conventional  bondage  over- 
mastering her  she  entered  the  Record  building  determined 
to  protect  them  from  what  they  were  palpably  unable  or 
unwilling  to  avoid  themselves. 

Ill 

Wilfrid  Keating  could  have  told  Joan  what  was  on  her 
mind  before  she  revealed  it,  so  he  began  to  listen  to  her 
while  dividing  his  attention  between  her  and  numerous 
directions  to  assistants,  telephone  calls,  and  pencilled 
memoranda,  rising  occasionally  to  leave  the  room,  appar- 
ently giving  his  interest  to  a  hundred  things  more  im- 
portant than  herself,  and  altogether  treating  her  with 


Unconventional  Joan  159 

about  as  much  consideration  as  he  might  have  given  to  a 
fly  that  bothered  him,  suggesting  that,  like  the  fly,  she 
would  eventually  go  away. 

"I  have  never  been  in  an  editor's  room  before,"  Joan 
began,  discreetly. 

"Send  the  head  proof-reader  up  here,"  she  heard  him 
speak  into  a  telephone. 

He  was  busy,  she  decided.  He  was  too  busy  to  ask 
her  to  sit  down. 

She  would  wait. 

He  was  making  notes  on  sheets  of  paper.  Outside  the 
open  door  of  his  office  another  man  was  making  similar 
notes  on  similar  sheets  of  paper,  seated  at  the  centre  of 
a  half-circle  table.  On  either  side  of  him,  at  the  same 
table,  sat  other  men,  making  the  same  kind  of  notes  on 
the  same  kind  of  paper.  All  the  men  at  this  odd-shaped 
table  seemed  to  be  passing  their  little  sheets  of  paper  to 
the  man  in  the  centre.  Sometimes  he  would  hand  them 
back :  occasionally  a  boy  would  go  back  and  forth  between 
him  and  Keating  carrying  the  little  squares  of  paper. 
Frequently  the  man  at  the  centre  of  the  circular  table 
would  put  some  of  the  sheets  into  a  pneumatic  tube  in 
front  of  him  and  they  would  disappear.  All  round  the 
room  were  unpretentious  desks  which  Joan  presumed 
were  for  the  use  of  the  reporters,  because  young  men 
were  coming,  as  she  waited,  with  similar  sheets  of  paper 
which  they  took  from  their  pockets  and  worked  on  at 
these  desks.  Some  of  the  young  men  kept  their  hats  on 
as  they  wrote,  all  of  them  smoked  incessantly,  and  there 
was  no  audible  conversation  in  the  room.  The  muffled 
"tick-tick"  of  telegraph  instruments  in  an  adjoining  room 
was  the  only  sound  that  could  be  heard.  Green  shades 


160  Unconventional  Joan 

softened  the  glare  of  the  electric  lights.  Joan's  thoughts 
went  back  to  study  days  at  college.  She  fancied  that  she 
might  be  watching  a  studious  group  of  her  schoolmates 
in  a  study-hall,  preparing  tomorrow's  tasks,  instead  of 
observing  one  of  the  city's  powerful  thought-machines 
creating  for  the  citizens  their  morning's  supply  of  ideas. 

The  proof-reader  sent  for  by  Keating  came  and  went. 
Still  Joan  stood,  unnoticed.  Finally  she  sat  down  at  her 
own  instigation.  Keating  got  up  and  left  the  room. 
Before  she  could  wonder  where  he  had  gone  he  returned. 
She  abruptly  accosted  him.  He  was  getting  on  her 
nerves.  She  forgot  her  plan  to  plead  instead  of  to  con- 
demn. 

"Your  paper  printed  nothing  this  morning  but  inven- 
tions about  the  Church  Dance  last  night,"  she  feebly 
ventured. 

"How  do  you  know?  You  were  not  there,"  Keating 
replied,  without  looking  at  her. 

"But  you  have  no  right  to  attack  the  Rector,"  she  re- 
torted. 

"There's  a  shot  for  you,"  she  comforted  herself.  "I 
dare  dispute  your  rights." 

Keating  took  no  notice  of  her. 

"Your  phrasing  was  calculated  to  make  him  odious," 
she  added. 

Ye  gods !  she  was  criticizing  a  big  newspaper  editor's 
English ! 

Keating  kept  on  writing. 

"You  annihilated  him  overnight,"  she  asserted,  gather- 
ing force  with  every  blow. 

Verily  the  gods  are  merciful.  She  had  not  yet  been 
thrown  out. 


Unconventional  Joan  161 

Keating  kept  on  writing. 

"You  suppressed  the  truth  and  distorted  the  facts." 
Crack !  Crack !  Crack !  came  her  charges  like  machine- 
gun  bullets. 

"You  were  flippant  and  you  were  mocking." 
"Is  it  impossible  to  insult  the  man,"  she  wondered? 
"And  you  pretend  to  all  the  virtues." 
That  ought  to  rile  him. 
But  Keating  kept  on  writing. 

"And  you  presume  to  pick  out  who's  who  and  who 
isn't." 

Somewhere  outside  a  street  organ  began  to  play,  "It's 
coming  to  you." 

"Your  paper  blasts  the  best  hopes  of  mankind,  and 
perpetuates  torment  instead  of  happiness  for  thousands." 
Still  no  response  from  Keating. 
"You  are  responsible  for  the  only  ideas  that  your 
readers  possess." 

Keating  answered  the  telephone. 
"Will  you  apologize  to  the  Rector?" 
Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  step  this  way  for  Death  Valley ! 
"Of  course  not.    You  never  apologize." 
She  answered  it  for  him,  with  fine  scorn. 
"Do  you  call  that  'serving  the  public'  ?"  she  continued. 
Lead,  Kindly  Light ! 
"I  call  it  hoodwinking  the  public." 
Keating  stared  at  her. 
The  little  mother — militant! 

In  her  eyes  he  saw  that  veiled  deep  glow,  that  pathet- 
ic hurt  dignity,  that  unsubdued  and  unsubduable  spirit 
that  burns  and  smoulders  in  the  eye  of  a  caged  eagle, 
rousing  in  humans  self-scorn  by  its  mute  reproach. 


1 62  Unconventional  Joan 

She  thought  his  manner  softened  as  he  looked  at  her. 
"Nobody  denies  your  paper  its  profits,  Mr.  Keating," 
she  continued. 

She  hoped  he  would  say  something  to  that,  but  he  re- 
turned to  his  writing. 

"Anybody  can  write  up  a  lot  of  sensationalism,"  she 
went  on.  "It  doesn't  require  any  extraordinary  brain- 
power to  do  that.  For  proof  that  it  is  easy  to  do,  just 
see  how  many  newspaper  editors  in  the  country  are  doing 
it  daily.  To  write  the  truth  can't  be  easy,  otherwise  it 
would  be  more  common.  Isn't  it  therefore  worth  try- 
ing?" 

He  surprised  her  by  answering  her.  What  he  said 
seemed  to  echo  what  another  editor,  Tom  Manly,  had 
said  to  her. 

"What  you  have  in  mind  is  no  copy  for  a  news  editor. 
His  public  does  not  expect  that  sort  of  stuff." 

"That  is  because  you  have  not  taught  the  public  to 
want  that  sort  of  stuff.  But  you  could  do  it." 

Did  he  think  he  was  being  drawn  into  an  argument 
with  her  ?  Did  he  think  he  was  on  unsafe  ground  ?  Joan 
wondered,  because  he  returned  to  his  writing. 

She  pressed  her  point. 

"Don't  you  think  that  outside  the  vicious  radius  of 
Newspaper  Row,  there  might  be  room  in  the  public's  ap- 
proval for  a  newspaper  that  made  it  its  policy  to  reflect 
the  happy  circumstances  of  life? 

Keating  was  writing  again,  and  took  no  notice, 

Joan  persevered. 

"There  are  men  and  women  in  the  city  who  don't  want 
to  know  the  world  they  live  in  as  anything  but  beautiful. 
Those  men  and  women  would  be  glad  to  find  it  beauti- 


Unconventional  Joan  163 

fully  reflected  in  the  newspapers,  if  they  could.  But  a 
murder  or  a  suicide  is  usually  served  up  to  them  by  the 
newspaper  at  their  breakfast  tables,  as  mental  food  on 
which  to  begin  the  trying  day's  struggle.  And  surely  the 
corridors  of  the  police  court  are  not  the  brightest  ap- 
proaches to  happiness  for  them?" 

Keating  kept  on  writing. 

"I  don't  think  the  world  is  all  sinister,  and  if  it  is  you 
can  change  it.  Have  you  power  only  to  make  it  evil?" 

Keating  kept  on  writing. 

"There  is  a  sweetness  in  life  which  you  do  not  depict, 
Mr.  Keating.  Far  from  being  a  world  filled  with  men. 
and  women  fighting  to  get  out  of  it,  life  holds  happy 
circumstances  where  many  would  linger  if  they  could." 

The  little  mother — pleading. 

Keating  answered  her,  using  again,  she  noticed,  almost 
identically,  Tom  Manly's  words. 

"It  is  not  the  sort  of  news  an  editor  wants,  and  that 
will  sell  his  papers  to  the  man  in  the  street.  You  do  not 
understand.  You  are  not  a  newspaper  writer." 

That  reply  gave  Joan  her  cue.  True,  she  was  not  a 
newspaper  writer,  but  she  could  be.  Or  she  could  at  least 
try  to  be  one,  a  good  one,  and  on  Keating's  paper. 

It  was  an  inspiration ! 

Her  heart  leapt  to  it. 

"Mr.  Keating,  could  you  give  me  a  job  on  your  paper?" 
she  nervously  enquired. 

Keating  kept  on  writing  for  a  moment,  called  a  boy 
and  gave  him  some  of  his  little  sheets  of  paper,  and  turn- 
ing round  to  Joan,  petrified  her  with  his  answer: 

"Yes,  how  soon  can  you  go  to  work  ?" 

Rapture !  And  the  vision  of  young  girls  joyfully  read- 


164  Unconventional  Joan 

ing  the  helpful  articles  which  she  would  contribute  to  the 
Record. 

But  could  she  carry  on  Jerry's  work  and  at  the  same 
time  be  a  reporter  ?  Impossible !  That  was  obvious.  There- 
fore she  could  not  be  a  reporter. 

Desolation !  And  the  vision  of  young  girls  continuing 
to  be  poisoned  by  the  Record's  slush  for  women. 

But  although  she  could  not  work  in  the  laboratory  and 
at  the  same  time  be  a  news-writer,  she  could  at  least  take 
the  newspaper  work,  (and  from  her  salary  keep  up  the 
rent  of  the  laboratory)  until  Jerry  returned.  Jerry  would 
approve  of  that,  she  decided,  little  suspecting  Jerry's  fate. 

"I  can  begin  tomorrow,"  she  answered. 

Keating  introduced  her  to  the  staff,  and  she  departed, 
certain  that  her  hour  at  the  Record  office  had  been  one 
of  the  wisest  investments  of  time  that  she  had  ever  made. 

IV 

Joan  walked  briskly  and  contentedly  home,  where  she 
joyfully  told  the  stricken  Rector  and  Margaret  what  she 
had  undertaken.  She  wanted  to  tell  Tom  Manly,  too,  so 
she  rang  him  up  on  the  telephone. 

"I  have  some  news  for  you,  Tom,  but  not  for  publica- 
tion," she  said,  wondering  what  he  would  think  and  say 
when  he  learned  that  she  had  joined  the  staff  of  the  rival 
newspaper. 

"What  is  it,  Joan  ?"  he  enquired. 

"I  am  going  to  work  tomorrow  on  the  Record,"  she 
replied,  with  not  a  little  satisfaction  over  the  thrill  she 
was  giving  him. 

"Oh,  yes/'  replied  Tom,  "I  just  read  about  it  in  the 
Record." 


Unconventional  Joan  165 

"You  read  about  it  in  the  Record?  Why  Tom,  the 
Record  is  not  out  yet.  This  is  eight  thirty  p.  m.,  not 
a.  m.,"  she  laughingly  replied. 

"But  the  'bull-dog'  edition  of  the  Record  is  just  out, 
Joan.  That's  the  edition  which  has  to  be  printed  early  so 
as  to  get  on  the  early  evening  trains  for  shipment  to  out- 
of-town  points.  The  later  edition,  of  course,  will  not  be 
printed  until  two  a.  m.,  for  local  distribution. 

Joan  was  receiving  her  first  practical  lesson  in  the 
business  of  newspaper  making. 

"What  does  it  say  in  the  Record,  Tom?" 

"There  is  a  column  giving  an  interview  with  you,  under 
the  head-line  'It's  our  Press  that  Ails  us.'  The  sub- 
stance of  the  interview  is  like  the  material  of  some  of 
your  conversations  with  me  on  the  same  subject.  The 
article  is  used  as  a  follow-up  to  the  articles  which  the 
Record  printed  about  Jerry.  It  refers  to  you  as  'part  of 
the  brain'  of  'Electrical  Englin'  and  facetiously  concludes 
with  the  statement  that  you  are  now  going  to  contribute 
the  whole  of  your  own  brain  to  the  Record,  as  one  of  its 
writers  who  will  specialize  on  uplift  work. 

Joan  did  not  even  hear  Tom  telling  her  to  cancel  the 
agreement,  nor  did  she  hear  him  asking  her  if  the  out- 
come of  the  pictures  and  the  dance  had  not  shown  her 
what  she  would  not  believe  when  he  tried  to  assure  her  it 
was  so.  She  could  think  only  of  the  sensational  way  in 
which  she  had  been  dragged  into  the  newspaper  columns 
like  Jerry  and  the  Rector. 

It  was  painfully  clear  to  her  now.  Keating  had  skil- 
fully wheedled  her  into  talking  as  she  did,  had  drawn  her 
on  by  his  silence,  had  actually  written  the  interview  in  her 
presence.  She  had  done  the  talking  and  he  had  kept 


166  Unconventional  Joan 

on  writing.  Then  he  had  handed  what  he  wrote  to  the 
boy  to  be  printed  as  soon  as  she  had  asked  him  if 
she  could  be  a  news-writer — after  having  been  actually 
prompted  by  him  to  ask  that  question — in  fact,  after  hav- 
ing been  given  by  him  the  cue  to  make  the  request. 

It  was  diabolically  clever. 

Vainly  she  tried  to  fathom  his  motive. 


"Paregoric,  you  have  been  putting  something  over  on 
me,  and  on  the  police,"  accusingly  exclaimed  Joan,  as 
.she  beamed  with  amazement  at  what  her  shaggy  friend 
with  the  medicinal  name  had  brought  to  the  loft  ahead  of 
her  on  Wednesday  morning. 

"Where  have  you  been  keeping  them,  and  when  did 
you—" 

"Yelp,  yelp,  yelp,  yelp,  yelp,  yelp!" 

"Why  Paregoric,  nobody  suspected  you  were  that  kind 
of  a  dog  to  begin  with,  and — " 

Three  brown  little  wriggling  bodies,  toddling  along  be- 
hind their  mother  wagged  frantic  tails  and  emitted  baby 
tiarks,  until  Joan  stooped  down  and  took  all  three  of  them 
into  her  arms.  At  once  Madam  Paregoric  reared  proudly 
upon  her  hind  legs,  and  caressed  her  babies  and  Joan's 
wrists  alternately,  with  her  tickling  pink  tongue. 

Joan  tenderly  fed  her,  petted  her,  and  lingeringly  bade 
her  good-bye: 

"I  never  expect  to  see  you  and  your  babies  again,  Pare- 
goric," she  confided,  with  a  catch  in  her  voice  that  was 
perilously  near  a  sob.  "Stick  close  to  them,  Paregoric." 
She  fondled  one  of  the  babies.  "Be  a  good  mother  to 
them.  Don't  let  them  run  about  loose." 


CHAPTER  X 

i 

OIX  million  minutes  left,"  calculated  Larry. 

^  Joan  had  set  off  for  her  first  day's  experience  at  the 

Record  office. 

Her  departure  to  take  up  her  writing  work  gave  Larry 
the  idea  of  continuing  his  famous  thesis,  "Conventional- 
ism and  Its  Perpetrators."  He  was  accustomed  to  add 
to  it  from  time  to  time,  closeting  himself  in  his  book- 
filled  room  on  the  top  floor. 

"Six  million  minutes  left  out  of  thirty-one  million,  to 
finish  my  book,"  he  crazily  figured  with  his  pencil  on  a 
pad  of  paper. 

"Yes,  that's  right.  I  am  forty  years  old  now.  I  will 
live  to  be  sixty.  Sixty  years  of  life  means  thirty-one 
million  minutes.  Ten  million  minutes  for  sleep.  Two 
million  minutes  for  meals.  Seven  and  a  half  millions 
wasted  in  my  childhood  on  make-believe  study  and  play. 
Three  million  minutes  for  my  daily  three  hours'  loaf  be- 
fore and  after  meals.  Half  a  million  to  my  annual  vaca- 
tions, and  two  million  for  Sundays  and  holidays.  That 
gives  me  six  million  minutes  left.  It  isn't  very  much. 
I'll  have  to  work  faster  on  this  book." 

He  began  to  write  in  his  most  euphonious  and  alliter- 
atively  elegant  style: 

"The  world  that  has  just  been  so  dearly  'made  safe 
for  democracy*  is  more  quickly  than  ever  degenerating 
into  the  depths  of  depravity.  The  moral  going  is  down- 
wards, and  those  who  do  not  go  willingly  are  dragged 
along  by  their  business  associates,  by  their  fellow  church- 
members  and  by  their  relatives.  There  is  no  escape.  To- 

167 


168  Unconventional  Joan 

day  is  the  crisis  of  civilization.     This  is  the  hour  of  con- 
centrated agony  and  peril. 

"To  most  people  the  moral  descent  is  so  deliriously  en- 
ticing and  thrilling  from  the  very  start,  that  the  fascina- 
tion of  the  downfall  discounts  all  sense  of  danger.  They 
admit  their  lapse,  invite  it  and  justify  it  in  terms  of  the 
accommodating  law  of  compensation.  'They  have  suf- 
fered to  the  uttermost  and  so  they  are  entitled  to  be  su- 
feited/  they  argue. 

"The  end  of  the  strain  that  has  suddenly  come  to 
wasted  men  of  sapped  energy,  is  lowering  them  by  quick 
descents  from  lassitude  to  looseness.  Their  women's  or- 
deal of  sacrifice  has  suddenly  ceased.  Together,  men  and 
women,  they  are  yielding  to  the  sweet  relief  of  every 
available  comfort  at  any  required  price  of  pocket-book  or 
soul. 

"It  is  easy,  but  appalling,  to  predict  what  will  ensue. 

"The  rake,  Reaction,  has  met  with  easy  Affluence,  and 
will  beget  first  Prodigality,  then  Profiteering,  after  that 
Penury  and  eventually  Panic.  These,  in  turn,  by  rapid 
assimilation,  will  bring  forth  Disillusionment,  Despair, 
Cynicism  and  Crime. 

"Prodigality  will  scatter  waste,  demand  profusion, 
boast  extravagance,  spill  the  world's  surplus,  throw  good 
money  after  bad,  lavish  fortunes  upon  courtesans,  inflate 
the  stock-market,  produce  a  multitudinous  crop  of  up- 
starts, and  immortalize  the  vampire. 

"To  harmonize  with  and  propagate,  rather  than  obliter- 
ate this  phase  of  convention,  the  Press  will  be  found 
printing  a  hundred  inches  of  advertisements  for  every 
inch  of  news,  and  diverting  billions  of  excess  profits  to  its 
coffers,  by  forcing  profit-makers  to  believe  that  it  will  be 


Unconventional  Joan  169 

better  for  them  to  spend  their  excess  in  publicity  than  to 
give  it  away  for  nothing  to  the  Government. 

"Profiteering  will  hide  its  brigand's  face  beneath  a 
mask  of  mock  philanthropy,  pillage  the  people,  exact  one 
thousand  per  cent,  and  teach  them  to  raid  one  another. 

"The  Press  will  propagate  this  particular  phase  of  con- 
vention by  flippantly  poking  fun  at  it,  cajoling  its  victims, 
and  taking  substantial  toll  of  the  despoilers. 

"Penury  will  uninvited  come  to  live  with  hordes  of 
unemployed,  treat  millionaires  like  beggars,  and  grotes- 
quely make  the  dearly-bought  democracy  prove  to  be 
distress  and  destitution. 

"This  development  in  the  evolution  of  convention  will 
be  concealed  as  long  as  possible,  by  successful  efforts  of 
the  Press  to  prevent  reduction  of  prices,  by  ridiculing 
those  who  earnestly  attempt  it,  accusing  them  of  hysteria 
and  otherwise  annihilating  them  with  epithets. 

"Panic  will  be  heralded  before  it  comes.  First,  mis- 
trust will  demand  recognition,  and  loss  of  confidence 
will  be  rumoured,  provoking  despondency,  heart  palpita- 
tion and  the  cold  sweat  of  fear,  before  the  monster's 
arrival  in  an  earthquake  that  will  burst  the  stock-market 
bubble,  shake  the  faith  of  children,  harrow  the  souls  of 
women,  and  petrify  the  valour  of  men. 

"The  Press  will  wildly  strive  to  deny  this  descent  of 
convention  by  quoting  the  mighty  captains  of  industry 
against  its  existence. 

"Disillusionment  will  stalk  naked  through  the  streets, 
shouting  the  bitter  truth  of  self-reproach  for  the  humilia- 
tion and  conviction  of  all  alike. 

"At  this  stage  in  the  evolution  of  convention  the  Press 
will  help  the  downward  development  by  circulating  the 


I  jo  Unconventional  Joan 

new  term  'normalcy',  recommending  a  narcotic  in  place 
of  a  genuine  remedy  for  what  is  wrong. 

"Despair  will  not  delay  in  turning  pessimism  into  in- 
consolable dejection. 

"The  Press  will  conspire  to  conceal  this  suicide  of  con- 
vention by  diverting  attention  from  it  by  emphasis  of  the 
greater  wretchedness  of  other  countries. 

"Cynicism  will  convert  critics  into  carpers,  defamers 
into  slanderers,  and  lampooners  into  blackmailers. 

"At  this  phase  the  Press  will  be  able  to  say  with  truth: 
— 'the  people  are  copying  our  methods.' 

"But  to  Crime  will  be  left  the  function  of  completing 
the  disintegration  of  conventional  civilization.  Citizens 
will  become  charlatans.  Every  man  will  rob.  Every  man 
will  expect  to  be  robbed.  None  will  trust  his  neighbour. 
Infamous  imposition,  vicious  immorality,  base  brutality, 
foul  corruption,  scandalous  profligacy  and  hellish  atroci- 
ties of  unspeakable  kinds — these  our  citizens  will  expect 
to  encounter.  Success  will  be  measured  by  villainy. 
Scoundrels  will  become  a  law  unto  themselves.  Money 
will  be  God.  Money  will  control  men's  thoughts — their 
very  souls ! 

"And  the  Press  will  capitalize  this  downfall  of  conven- 
tion by  making  newspapers  the  catalogues  of  the  world's 
sins. 

"Then,  adequately  anticipated,  will  each  descent  from 
one  moral  platform  to  another  be  hourly  recorded  with 
flippancy  in  the  Press.  The  spirit  of  abandonment  will 
prevail.  Commensurate  with  the  moral  catastrophes  will 
be  the  candour  with  which  they  will  be  expected,  tolerated 
and  discussed.  Readers  will  know  in  advance,  before 
picking  up  their  paper,  that  it  will  intensify  their  des- 


Unconventional  Joan  171 

pendency.  They  can  be  certain  that  its  vivid  pictures  of 
human  depravity  will  exceed  in  number  and  intensity 
those  of  the  day  before.  They  can  eventually  expect  it  to 
deaden  their  dependence  upon  convention  as  the  guardian 
or  promoter  of  moral  integrity.  Too  late  they  will  recog- 
nize the  vicious  Press  to  be  responsible  for  not  merely  the 
moral  but  likewise  the  intellectual  disintegration  of  the 
world — the  one  accompanies  the  other — and  already  the 
menace  of  madness  confronts  the  human  race.  We  are 
rapidly  approaching  a  near  proximity  to  a  \vorld  of  mad- 
men. The  human  stock  is  declining  in  quality  and  run- 
ning low.  The  decadence  of  youth  is  irretrievable. 
Civilization  is  cracking,  crashing  into  chaos.  Conven- 
tionalism, promoted  by  the  vicious  Press,  makes  world  in- 
sanity inevitable.  It  is  maddening  to  go  either  with  it  or 
against  it." 

Mad  Larry's  mania  grew  rapidly  worse  as  he  wrote. 

ii 

Joan  went  to  work  as  a  reporter  for  the  Record  on 
Wednesday  afternoon.  By  Thursday  evening  she  had 
learned  that  the  average  law-abiding  citizen  had  not  the 
remotest  idea  of  the  magnitude  and  efficiency  of  the 
machinery  of  this  vicious  newspaper  for  influencing  his 
mind. 

She  discovered  that  the  equipment  of  the  Record  com- 
prehended much  more  than  its  offices,  editors,  reporters, 
telegraphers,  printing  presses,  printer?,  newsboys,  news- 
agents, advertising  salesmen  and  clerks.  She  found  out 
that  the  composite  brain  of  this  powerful  institution  in- 
cluded bankers,  judges,  policemen,  firemen,  heads  of  cor- 
porations, detectives,  jailers,  keepers  of  dens  of  iniquity, 


172  Unconventional  Joan 

men  and  women,  from  all  stations  in  life,  used  as  occa- 
sion demanded,  for  various  kinds  of  purposes,  and  con- 
trolled by  different  influences  ranging  from  salaries 
through  the  complicated  ramifications  of  graft,  to  all  sorts 
of  blackmail  and  threatened  exposure. 

Joan  was  astounded  at  the  quality  and  quantity  of  de- 
pendability secured  to  the  company  from  individuals 
bound  to  it  by  such  inferior  motives.  From  top  to  bottom 
of  the  stupendously  active  organization,  every  individual 
seemed  to  be  straining  with  all  his  might  to  do  the  un- 
disputed bidding  of  the  master,  intent  upon  getting  the 
greatest  possible  number  of  citizens  to  pay  tribute  to  his 
treasury,  day  after  day,  by  unscrupulously  providing  the 
material  for  irresistible  headlines  and  sensational  articles. 
Ethics  played  small  part  in  the  selection  and  presentation 
of  so-called  news.  She  found  everyone  on  the  staff  will- 
ing not  only  to  destroy  reputations,  and  drive  perfectly 
harmless  men  and  women  to  suicide  and  murder,  for  the 
sake  of  headlines,  but  willing  also  to  stab  the  nation's  best 
servants  in  the  back,  stir  up  religious  and  race-hatreds, 
and  provoke  war. 

The  first  instructions  given  to  her  had  been  very  blunt 
and  very  emphatic. 

She  had  been  plainly  informed,  at  the  start,  that  she 
was  expected  to  "catch  policy"  at  once. 

Just  what  this  meant  became  clear  within  a  few  hours. 
Pasted  up  on  her  little  desk  was  a  printed  list  of  the 
citizens  whose  names  were  never  allowed  to  appear  in  the 
paper.  Among  these  were  the  names  of  merchants  who 
had  refused  to  advertise  in  the  paper,  and  other  people 
whom  the  proprietors  envied  or  hated  for  personal  rea- 
sons. The  proprietors,  themselves,  on  the  other  hand, 


Unconventional  Joan  173 

were  to  be  fulsomely  eulogized  as  frequently  as  possible. 

She  observed  that  her  associates  privately  loathed  and 
condemned  the  proprietors,  and  yet  obeyed  their  wishes  as 
conveyed  to  them  through  Keating.  Keating  knew  the 
prejudices  and  weaknesses  of  the  proprietors  by  long  as- 
sociation. His  word  was  law  as  to  what  might  be  called 
"news"  from  the  point  of  view  of  this  particular  paper, 
and  as  to  what  might  be  dangerous  for  the  public  to  know. 
To  succeed  under  him  meant  to  cultivate  a  "nose  for 
news"  of  the  kind  that  would  sell  Record  newspapers 
without  displeasing  the  paper's  friends  or  advertisers,  or 
interfering  with  the  fame  and  fortune  of  its  owners. 

Joan  was  also  advised  that  it  would  help  her  if  she 
would  learn  by  heart  the  names  of  all  of  the  officers  of 
thirty-seven  corporations  which,  while  not  advertisers, 
were  either  controlled  by,  or  paid  tribute  to,  the  paper's 
proprietors.  They  were  some  of  her  masters,  as  she 
understood  it,  and  she  was  their  slave. 

To  make  a  living  as  an  employee  of  the  Record  ob- 
viously appeared  to  her  to  imply  that  she  would  have  to 
sacrifice  every  ideal  of  truth,  humanity  and  progress ;  to 
become  the  hireling  of  privilege,  playing  the  dirty  game 
of  the  paper's  unscrupulous  owners  and  controllers. 

She  could  see  that  the  whole  psychology  of  life  of  her 
associates,  who  had  succumbed  to  the  servitude  exacted 
by  this  newspaper,  had  been  changed.  Everything  that 
once  they  must  have  normally  felt  concerning  truth  and 
justice  and  charity  had  been  subtly  eliminated  from  their 
philosophy,  which  was  a  hard,  cynical  set  of  opinions  af- 
fected for  financial  reasons. 

She  found  that  these  reporters  worked  under  very  high 
pressure.  Competition  between  them  and  the  staff  of  the 


174  Unconventional  Joan 

News  was  furious.    The  bosses  kept  the  competition  alive. 

"How  are  we  going  to  get  circulation,"  Keating  asked 
her,  when  she  at  the  start  protested  against  being  assigned 
to  fabricate  an  interview  with  the  alleged  mistress  of  an 
unfrocked  clergyman,  "if  we  are  going  to  let  the  News 
across  the  street  get  this  scoop?" 

Arguments  like  that  usually  kept  the  reporters  lined 
up  to  their  obligations. 

Under  hot,  yellow  lights,  late  at  night,  the  writers 
squeezed  out  their  vitality  as  spiders  give  of  their  sub- 
stance to  fabricate  an  ensnaring  web,  and  invariably  left 
their  work  exhausted.  As  a  consequence  they  easily  be- 
came immoderates.  At  the  desk  beside  her  own  worked 
a  young  woman  whose  writing-fingers  were  yellow  with 
nicotine  from  the  cigarettes  which  alternated  with  her 
bluntly  pointed  pencil.  Her  habits  made  Joan  despise  the 
conditions  which  had  so  tyrannically  converted  the  charm 
of  girlhood  into  such  offensive  dross.  Early  on  Thurs- 
day evening,  after  she  had  told  Keating  that  she  would 
not  concoct  his  requested  interview,  Joan  spoke  to  her 
companion: 

"I  am  practicing  silence.  That's  one  brand  of  this 
newspaper's  activity,  isn't  it?  What  are  you  doing,  dis- 
torting or  faking  news?" 

The  preachment  was  typical  of  a  cub  reporter's  inno- 
cence, and  received  a  derisive  answer  from  her  sophisti- 
cated neighbour. 

"Quit  or  catch  on,  girlie!" 

"Catch  on  to  what?" 

"The  code." 

"Honour  among  thieves !"  sneeringly  retorted  Joan. 

Her  neighbour's  scoffing  mood  disappeared.  Her  nerv- 


Unconventional  Joan  175 

cms  pencil  tapped  out  a  tom-tom  to  her  associates.     Her 
telegraphic  message  equivalently  said: 

"Come,  help  me  initiate  this  novice." 

A  group  of  reporters  gathered  around  to  lend  a  hand 
in  grilling  the  newcomer.  It  was  a  typical  assortment  of 
the  Record's  species  of  newspaper  people,  profoundly 
proficient  in  chicanery  and  astute  in  playing  upon  human 
weaknesses. 

Joan  sat  modestly  self-possessed  and  tranquil  before 
her  leering  persecutors,  with  their  pipes  and  green  eye- 
shades,  as  if  she  were  a  spectator  instead  of  an  intended 
victim.  Although  they  concealed  it,  she  disconcerted 
them  with  her  simplicity  and  straightforwardness.  Their 
sarcastic  jibes  rebounded  from  her  to  their  own  discom- 
fort. 

"Oh!  I  don't  have  to  do  this,"  challenged  the  lady 
with  the  golden  fingers.  "I  could  starve." 

Joan  answered  this  pathetic  sarcasm  with  her  eyes. 

When  Joan's  eyes  spoke  she  had  no  need  of  words. 

With  them  she  told  her  mocker  that  she  sincerely  pitied 
her  rather  than  condemned  her,  and  in  the  way  that 
women  understand  each  other's  moods  her  tormenter 
understood,  and  paid  her  the  tribute  of  silence. 

With  one  of  her  glances  she  convicted  a  lying  accuser 
on  the  edge  of  the  group  and  made  him  inwardly  confess 
it. 

With  another  glance  she  took  the  conceit  out  of  the 
man  who  sat  on  the  opposite  side  of  Miss  Nicotine,  and 
made  him  feel  humble. 

With  still  another  glance  she  put  courage  into  a  cow- 
ardly hanger-on  and  made  him  want  to  walk  away. 

With  still  other  glances  she  appeased  the  resentments 


176  Unconventional  Joan 

of  most  of  them,  revived  idealism  in  some  of  them,  and 
made  all  of  them  say  to  themselves: 

"We  were  once  like  that." 

Only  one  had  not  capitulated.  An  artist.  He  was 
cartooning  her  features.  Joan  suspected  him.  She  re- 
membered the  cartoon  in  the  tea-shop.  Presently  he 
passed  his  sketch  around.  She  saw  it. 

"English"  was  its  title. 

Her  cheeks  reddened. 

"English  and  American,"  she  indignantly  corrected. 

"Prove  it,"  suggested  the  artist. 

"I  don't  have  to  prove  it — I  feel  it." 

"Perhaps  other  English  people  don't  feel  quite  the 
same  way  towards  us  as  you  do — you  don't  feel  their 
feelings — " 

"Yes,  I  do,  and  I  understand  them — and  understand 
how  to  correct  their  feelings — better  than  you  do.  If  you 
had  any  understanding  at  all  you  would  see  that  you  can't 
change  their  wrong  feelings  by  insulting  them." 

He  had  no  answer  for  that.  She  let  it  sink  in  for  a 
moment.  Then  she  explained : 

"I  want  to  change  some  of  their  dislike  for  our  ways 
over  here.  I  want  them  to  know  us  just  as  we  are  over 
here,  at  our  best — not  as  vicious  newspapers  represent  us 
to  be,  at  our  worst — and  I  want  ourselves  to  know  them 
over  there  in  the  same  way — isn't  that  sensible?" 

"Who  taught  you  that?"  Her  inquisitor  was  doubtless 
thinking  of  what  the  newspapers  taught. 

"I  haven't  been  taught  much  of  anything,"  she  spirited- 
ly replied.  "My  education  has  been  'to  be  like  my 
mother'." 

He  had  no  answer  for  that,  either. 


Unconventional  Joan  177 

"Did  you  draw  that  cartoon  last  May  ?"  she  demanded. 

"Yes." 

"Why  did  you  do  it?" 

"Orders." 

"Exactly.  That's  why  people  over  here  see  people  over 
there  in  an  unlikable  way,  because  the  vicious  newspapers 
are  'ordered'  to  depict  them  as  unlikable,  and  vice  versa, 
for  all  sorts  of  reasons,  spiteful,  commercial  and  political. 
That's  what  is  the  matter !  The  vicious  Press  is  for  sale 
to  these  spiteful,  commercial,  political  buyers,  and  you 
men  and  women  who  make  the  vicious  Press  are  the 
cheapest  part  of  it — you  get  the  least  of  what  it  gets  for 
'the  use  of  you'." 

The  little  mother  of  the  tea-shop — belligerent ! 

Gentle,  considerate,  usually  so  like  Jerry — but  decisive- 
ly quick  on  occasion. 

The  fire  was  leaping  from  her  eyes,  as  she  deliberately 
looked  at  them  one  by  one. 

The  whole  of  her  heart's  emotions  went  into  her 
thrust — her  instinct  of  what  was  right — her  love  of  her 
mother — her  love  of  fair  play — her  aspiration  for  mutual 
understanding  between  Englishmen  and  Americans — her 
love  for  Jerry,  ruined  by  the  vicious  Press — her  love  for 
the  Rector,  persecuted  by  the  vicious  Press. 

She  had  struck  them  in  a  vital  spot.  She  read  their 
surrender  in  their  eyes.  Yet  they  dared  not  speak  and 
admit  it.  Economic  necessity  made  them  dumb. 

It  always  happened  that  people  who  began  in  jest  with 
Joan  ended  by  being  in  earnest.  Her  present  persecutors 
had  seen  reflections  in  her  of  their  former  selves  at  their 
best.  The  united  look  of  approval  in  their  eyes  was  more 
thrilling  to  her  than  a  great  burst  of  acclamations.  For 


178  Unconventional  Joan 

an  instant  she  dropped  her  head,  blushing,  for  it  had 
never  yet  entered  into  her  delicate  nature  to  like  being 
conspicuous.    Then  suddenly,  as  if  inspired,  she  lifted  it 
up  again  firmly,  her  beautiful  bright  eyes  pleading  with 
them  to  be  true  to  their  better  selves,  as  she  asked: 
"Will  you  quit  this  vicious  newspaper  with  me?" 
Keating's  grating  voice  sounded  in  her  ear: 
"Get  your  hat  and  get  out  of  here." 
The  reporters  slunk  back  to  their  fetters. 
When  Larry  opened  the  door  for  Joan  at  nine  o'clock, 
he  looked  at  her  face  solicitously,  and  said  to  himself : 
"She  is  going  £razy,  like  me." 

in 

This  was  a  never  to  be  forgotten  Thursday  evening  at 
the  Rector's  home.  Always  on  Thursdays,  it  was  his 
custom  to  sit  with  Margaret  and  Joan  and  Larry  and  go 
over  the  material  for  his  Sunday  sermon.  Together  they 
would  suggest,  discuss,  and  outline  various  points  which 
the  Rector  would  incorporate  into  his  Sunday  talk. 

It  was  three  days  since  Larry  had  spectacularly  emptied 
the  Church  Hall  (in  a  way  of  which  the  Rector,  Margaret 
and  Joan  had  no  knowledge)  while  the  Rector  knelt  in 
prayer  upstairs  gathering  strength  to  assail  the  roysterers 
with  a  withering  denunciation.  During  these  three  days, 
he  had  sat  at  home,  alone,  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  a 
broken  man. 

All  Tuesday,  Wednesday  and  Thursday  he  had  pored 
over  what  was  to  be,  on  the  following  Sunday,  the  su- 
preme effort  of  his  life,  and  when  Joan  entered  she  found 
him,  with  Margaret  by  his  side,  seated  at  the  table  where 
they  had  together  prepared  so  many  sermons,  and  where 


Unconventional  Joan  179 

to-night  they  fell  naturally  into  discussing  the  theme  for 
the  coming  Sunday:  "The  Tyranny  of  the  Press." 

"Should  we  not  substitute  for  Tress'  the  word  'Propa- 
ganda/ 'the  Tyranny  of  Propaganda',"  suggested  Joan. 
"I  might  have  held  the  job  if  it  had  depended  on  learning 
how  to  write  facts,  but  I  found  the  Record  to  be  not  a 
'news'-paper  but  a  vicious  propaganda  producer.  Its 
news  columns,  as  well  as  its  editorial  columns  are  paid 
propaganda  funnels." 

"I  like  'Tyranny  of  Convention  as  Perpetrated  by  the 
Press',"  recommended  Larry.  "I  am  writing  a  chapter 
on  that  topic,  which  I  think  will  be  timely — " 

"It  is  the  vicious  Press  that  we  must  have  the  courage 
to  attack,"  interjected  the  Rector.  "Our  relentless  foe, 
that  pursues  us  into  the  sacred  confines  of  our  homes." 

"I  found  the  Record  to  be  a  highly  organized  machine 
for  distorting  facts,"  explained  Joan.  "Its  masters  are 
the  local  advertisers,  publicity  or  propaganda-buyers,  and 
the  banks  which  lend  it  money.  It  distorts  facts  for  politi- 
cal, or  financial,  or  private  reasons.  Its  speciality  seems 
to  be  to  drag  out  old  skeletons  and  rattle  their  dry  bones 
before  the  world." 

"It  is  more  tyrannical  than  our  vested  interests,  because 
in  serving  them  it  controls  them,"  suggested  Larry. 

"It  lies  on  its  front  page,  and  retracts  obscurely  on  its 
last  page,"  added  Margaret.  "It  establishes  a  market  for 
pretence  by  creating  fictitious  fame  for  men  who  pay  it 
for  notoriety." 

"I  found  it  put  together  by  cynical  worldlings  doing  a 
work  they  despise  because  they  believe  that  life  is  a 
matter  of  dog  eat  dog,"  Joan  continued.  "It  is,  as  Larry 
says,  'the  organ  of  plutocracy.'  It  refrains  from  injuring 


180  Unconventional  Joan 

a  man  not  because  he  is  great  or  good  or  wise  or  useful, 
but  because  he  is  wealthy  or  of  service  to  united  wealth. 
And  the  latest  mean  thing  that  I  discovered  about  the 
Record  was  that  it  has  actually  just  hired  thugs  to  break 
up  a  threatened  strike  of  its  newsboys." 

"And  to  think  that  this  poison-worm  conies  crawling 
upon  our  breakfast  plates  every  morning,"  expostulated 
Larry. 

"Its  function  is  the  betrayal  of  public  opinion.  It  is 
an  utterly  ruthless  and  utterly  corrupt  despotism,"  con- 
tinued Joan.  "It  is  as  independent  as  a  highwayman." 

"Ravening  beast,  venomous  serpent,"  added  Larry. 
"We  live  with  it,  unarmed  and  unprotected,  and  yet  we 
let  it  live." 

"The  vicious  Press  has  actually  usurped  the  place  of  the 
Gospel,"  moaned  the  Rector,  betraying  his  suffering  in 
his  face. 

"As  well  as  the  function  of  our  nation's  chief  execu- 
tive," emphasized  Larry.  "Think  of  the  stigma  ever- 
lastingly stamped  upon  the  vicious  section  of  our  Press 
by  the  head  of  our  nation,  who  was  compelled  to  tell  that 
class  of  newspapers  that  if  they  did  not  cease  their  in- 
decent personal  attacks  upon  his  family,  he  would  step 
down  out  of  his  high  place  and  thrash  them." 

"And  just  think  of  the  foreign  hatred  it  has  brought 
us,"  quietly  remarked  Margaret,  whose  eyes  were  swollen 
from  secret  weeping.  "When  father  and  I  took  our  trip 
abroad  we  were  constantly  being  humiliated  to  learn  that 
our  people  had  provoked  an  atmosphere  of  disgust  around 
the  world  by  the  flippancy  of  manners  and  speech  that  our 
Press  had  taught  them  to  believe  was  smartness.  And  as 
to  foreign  opinion  of  many  of  our  papers  themselves, 


Unconventional  Joan  181 

there  is  nobody  who  reads  them  abroad  who  does  not  de- 
spise them." 

"Our  own  people  despise  and  hate  our  vicious  news- 
papers just  as  thoroughly  as  foreigners,  even  more  so; 
yet  they  seem  to  have  no  idea  what  to  do  about  them," 
remarked  Joan.  "They  indifferently  take  it  for  granted 
that  they  must  go  on  reading  falsehoods  for  the  balance 
of  their  days." 

"Our  Freedom  of  the  Press,"  vociferated  Larry,  "has 
become  our  Tyranny  of  the  Press." 

Margaret  interruptingly  placed  her  finger  over  her  lips, 
and  nodded  to  where  her  father  had  surprisingly  fallen 
asleep,  exhausted  in  his  chair. 

Caustic  Larry  cunningly  grinned  and  muttered  to  him- 
self: 

"Going  to  sleep  over  his  sermon — that's  for  others  to 
do." 

Larry  peered  knowingly  at  the  broken  pastor,  then  at 
Margaret's  swollen  eyes,  finally  at  the  pale,  worn  face  of 
Joan,  then  rose,  crossed  quietly  over  to  the  window,  lifted 
the  blind,  looked  towards  the  flashing  electric  signs  that 
showed  where  the  city's  happy  frolickers  were  joyously 
gathered  together,  and  remarked  aloud: 

"This  is  a  booby-hatch.    We're  all  smitten." 


CHAPTER  XI 


JOAN  sat  in  the  moonlight,  sleepless. 
Abandoned,  dismissed,  thwarted,  ostracized,  and  yet 
queerly  void  of  self-pity. 

The  persecution  of  her  friends  and  the  spoliation  of 
her  sex  obsessed  her. 

Our  vicious  Press !  Monopolizing  her  thoughts !  Em- 
bittering her  heart ! 

"It  is  our  vicious  Press  that  ails  us." 

The  words  were  constantly  upon  her  lips.  She  kept 
ejaculating  them.  With  each  repetition  their  invasion 
of  her  mind  advanced  another  step. 

"And  nobody  seems  to  care,"  she  reflected.  "It  is 
pathetic." 

She  looked  out  into  the  moonlight,  and  over  the  roofs 
of  the  city's  slumbering  multitudes. 

"Asleep!"  she  thought.    "I  must  awaken  them." 

She  looked  farther,  as  far  as  the  Record  office. 

"Wide  awake,"  she  realized.  "Could  I  put  this  vicious 
despot  forever  to  sleep !" 

She  looked  longer,  and  dejectedly  soliloquized: 

"Our  people  are  all  right.  It  is  our  vicious  Press  that 
ails  us." 

She  was  fearfully  depressed  and  becoming  intensely  de- 
termined. 

Jerry  loomed  up  before  her,  like  an  image  on  the  pic- 
ture screen,  worshipped  her  with  his  sad  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment, seemed  to  caution  her,  and  faded  away. 

"Jerry,"  she  cried,  and  tried  to  stretch  towards  him  her 
arms  trembling  with  love  and  rapture. 

182 


Unconventional  Joan  183 

His  eyes  fastened  upon  her — inundated  her  with  ten- 
derness and  pity. 

She  poured  out  her  passionate  love  to  him,  told  him  of 
the  intolerable  aching  in  her  heart,  strained  towards  him 
with  all  her  might — and  he  was  gone. 

Hopelessly  gone! 

The  larger  emotion  slowly  returned,  absorbed  her, 
crowded  all  things  else  out  of  her  heart. 

"I  have  the  courage  to  begin  the  attack  upon  this 
plunderer  of  our  people,"  she  reflected,  "but  have  I  the 
strength  to  continue  it?  It  is  a  man's  job.  Can't  the 
Rector  do  it?" 

She  began  to  cross-examine  herself  mercilessly. 

"Why  do  I  think  such  unfeminine  thoughts? 

"Am  I  turning  into  a  man  instead  of  developing  as  a 
woman  ? 

"Would  any  man  approve  of  such  a  tendency?  Would 
Tom? 

"Why  not  be  like  other  women,  natural  ? 

"Why  sacrifice  youth  and  face  empty  old  age  ? 

"Why  not  let  Tom  take  me  ? 

"I  am  compelled  to  live  with  other  people,  why  not  get 
in  tune  with  them? 

"Isn't  my  oddness  costing  me — youth,  love,  happiness, 
health,  children? 

"Was  it  hopeless  for  me  to  be  so  attached  to  Jerry? 
Was  it  mockery? 

"Isn't  it  peculiar  for  a  young  woman  of  my  age  to 
refuse  a  man  like  Tom  Manly? 

"Isn't  it  strange  that  I  don't  associate  with  other  young 
men? 

"Wasn't  it  ultra-original  to  try  to  become  a  reporter  ? 


184  Unconventional  Joan 

"Isn't  it  irregular  to  try  to  fight  the  Press? 

"Isn't  it  eccentric  to  oppose  custom  ? 

"Isn't  it  unnatural  to  be  brooding  here  like  this  at  this 
moment  ? 

"Is  'everybody  out  of  step  but  me'?" 

Recollection  of  the  Rector's  warning  intimidated  her: 
"The  penalty  for  oddness  is  dementia."  She  thought  of 
Larry. 

"Am  I  going  out  of  my  mind  ? 

"Isn't  my  attitude  illogical,  irrational,  arbitrary? 

"Isn't  it  so  unconventional  as  to  be  actually  funny  ? 

"Nobody  likes  a  girl  to  be  like  this — at  least  nobody 
nowadays. 

"Maybe  God  made  me  too  much  like  a  boy?" 

Suddenly  she  checked  her  self-denunciations,  as  she  re- 
membered one  of  Jerry's  questions: 

"Joan,  don't  a  woman's  sensations  sometimes  fight 
against  her  instinct?" 

She  remembered  how  she  answered  him: 

"  A  woman's  instinct  has  frequently  held  out  success- 
fully against  a  seemingly  logically  proven  absurdity — " 
She  was  startled.  "Am  I  holding  out  now,  or  am  I  slip- 
ping— giving  in  to  convention  under  the  pressure  of  cir- 
cumstances— going  down  with  the  rest?" 

She  got  up  and  brought  Jerry's  diary  that  she  had 
taken  away  from  the  loft. 

His  legacy. 

Under  her  shaded  reading-light  she  wept  over  what  he 
had  written  after  his  conscientious  struggle  to  conquer 
his  love  for  her: 

"Joan  has  shown  me  that  a  good  woman  following  her 
instinct  can't  be  wrong,  can't  be  influenced  by  degrading 


Unconventional  Joan  185 

conventions,  must  of  necessity  be  above  what  is  common- 
place, practically  inspired,  almost  Divine.  And  that  is 
why  men  worship  good  women,  not  merely  covet  them, 
in  the  way  they  covet  the  conventional  among  them,  who 
never  can  know  what  it  means  to  be  loved,  poor  creatures, 
being  merely  coveted.  And  so,  for  a  man  to  have  a  good 
and  devoted  woman  near  him  is  to  possess  a  Guardian 
Angel,  and  to  dismiss  one  is  like  spurning  Divine  inspira- 
tion and  protection." 

"Poor  creatures !"  Joan  repeated  Jerry's  words.  "How 
can  they  help  being  dragged  under  by  such  influences  as 
the  tyrant  propagates,"  she  added,  shuddering  over  her 
own  nearness  to  the  tempting  rapids.  "It's  pulling  them 
in.  They  must  jump  in.  It  isn't  they  themselves  that 
are  so  foolish.  It's  our  vicious  Press  that  ails  us." 

She  read  on: 

"A  woman  functions  normally  and  best  by  influence 

rather  than  by  direct  action God  give  Joan 

strength  to  be  and  to  remain  true  to  that  alone  which  it  is 
a  good  woman's  stupendous  privilege  to  be — a  woman." 

His  legacy  to  her. 

So  like  her  own  little  exhortation  to  the  Rector  to  be 
and  remain  a  minister — which  he  had  not  heeded — fail- 
ing disastrously. 

Like  an  admonition  and  a  warning  and  a  prophecy — to 
her  speculating  about  mannishly  and  aggressively  taking 
up  the  Rector's  fight. 

She  read  on: 

"Normal  women  instinctively  express  themselves 
through  their  beloved,  by  inspiration  and  encouragement 
....  It  requires  a  catastrophe  to  the  instrument  of 
their  influence  to  bring  them  to  the  front  and  force 


1 86  Unconventional  Joan 

them  to  assume  his  place,  although  there  have  been  occas- 
ions when,  in  so  doing,  they  have  not  only  re-established 
him,  but  won  to  him  and  to  his  efforts  more  followers 
than  he  could  have  won  himself." 

"If  I  do  it  would  Jerry  say  I  am  becoming  abnormal?" 
she  asked  herself. 

She  snapped  off  the  electric  light  for  the  more  peaceful 
light  of  the  moon.  Her  hands  clasped  the  legacy  of 
Jerry's  diary,  and  lay  extended  upon  the  table  before  her. 
Her  head  was  bent  a  little  downward,  and  her  air  was 
that  of  one  who  is  lost  in  thought,  steeped  in  dreams,  in- 
spired, not  conscious  of  herself  or  her  surroundings. 

The  incentive  grew  stronger  within  her  and  began  to 
assume  the  definite  form  of  an  obligation. 

"No,  it  isn't  a  man's  job,"  she  reflected.  "It  may  look 
like  a  man's  job,  but  a  woman  will  have  to  do  it.  No 
man  can  do  it.  The  Rector  can't  do  it.  They  won't  even 
come  to  hear  him.  No  other  man  could  ordinarily  be  ex- 
pected to  do  it  and  thereby  undo  his  life's  work,  which  is 
dependent  upon  leaving  things  as  they  are." 

Eventually  there  swept  upon  her  an  overpowering  surge 
of  desire  to  crush  the  vicious  Press  to  fragments,  and 
with  it  came  the  tempestuous  suggestion  of  an  undertak- 
ing whose  magnitude  both  awed  and  allured  her. 

The  little  mother  of  the  tea-shop — tumultuous ! 

ii 

Margaret  saw  Joan  in  the  moonlight,  through  her  open 
doorway,  and  pitied  her. 

Under  the  chill  whiteness,  beside  her  window,  Joan's 
face  was  colourless,  pure  and  infinitely  sad  and  sweet. 

Margaret  quietly  entered  Joan's  room  to  gomfort  her, 


Unconventional  Joan  187 

but  when  Joan  turned  towards  her,  her  eyes  alight  with 
the  ardour  of  her  inspiration,  Margaret  realized,  and 
said  to  herself : 

"They  could  dismiss  her,  but  they  have  not  broken  her. 
She  was  meant  to  be  a  man." 

And  instead  of  taking  Joan's  little  form  into  her 
arms,  Margaret  suffered  Joan  to  huddle  up  close  beside 
her  on  the  couch  in  front  of  the  window  and  mother 
her,  and  consolingly  say: 

"Margaret  is  going  to  tell  Joan  why  she  has  been  cry- 
ing so  much." 

But  they  both  cried  quietly  together  then,  while  the 
city  of  less  worried  women  peacefully  slept. 

Finally  Margaret  confided  what  was  troubling  her. 

"The  book  shop,  Joan — I  am  afraid  to  tell  him — it 
must  be  kept  from  him — it  is  going  into  bankruptcy  un- 
less— unless— could  you  come  down  in  the  morning — I 

Joan  hushed  Margaret's  heart-breaking  sobs,  and  took 
her  to  her  room  and  tucked  her  into  bed  with  sympa- 
thetic little  commendations  of  her  splendid  struggle. 

"You  couldn't  beat  Pogo  and  the  Press,  too,  Margie. 
But  it's  going  to  be  done.  You'll  see !  And  there  are  go- 
ing to  be  more  people  read  books  than  read  papers  or  go 
to  the  movies.  You'll  see !  And  I'll  certainly  come  over 
in  the  morning,  and  we'll  go  through  things,  and  I'll  tell 
you  a  big  secret  that  has  just  come  to  me.  So  go  to  sleep 
now  and  see  if  you  can't  dream  about  what  I  shall  tell 
you." 

Joan  returned  to  her  room,  and  dropping  upon  her 
knees  beside  her  bed,  began  to  pray,  at  the  dawn. 

Larry,  hearing  the  creaking  noise  caused  by  the  stealthy 


1 88  Unconventional  Joan 

footsteps  of  Margaret  and  Joan,  and  wondering  who 
could  be  prowling  about  the  house  at  that  hour  of  the 
morning,  crept  downstairs  from  his  attic  room  and  caught 
sight  of  Joan  through  her  open  door,  as  she  knelt  beside 
her  bed. 

Her  face  turned  heavenward,  still  pale  in  the  moon- 
light, but  looking  towards  the  dawn,  seemed  touched  with 
rapture,  and  Larry  paused. 

Gazing  fixedly,  and  touching  his  finger  to  his  forehead, 
he  hoarsely  whispered: 

"Mad!" 

in 

Joan's  consciousness  drifted  away  into  the  enchanted 
realms  of  sleep,  and  saw  oppressive  pictures  of  a  world 
of  driven  men  and  women  cringing  beneath  the  lash  of  a 
monstrous  tyrant,  whose  scowling  face  was  the  face  of 
Keating,  contorted  in  cruel  thought  behind  his  spectacles. 

And  as  she  watched,  there  came  a  white  robed  form, 
with  wings,  leading  her  away  from  the  throng  of  men  and 
women  into  a  peaceful  woodland,  where  the  birds  that  had 
been  quiet  burst  forth  into  song,  as  if  worshipping  the 
one  who  led  her.  And  Joan  fell  upon  her  knees,  and 
bowed  her  head  and  crossed  her  hands  upon  her  breast, 
until  the  Angel,  divinely  beautiful,  lifted  her  up  and  re- 
assuringly said  to  her: 

"I  am  thy  voice  that  guideth  thee.  Thou  callest  me 
'instinct/  I  was  given  to  thee,  to  guide  thee,  at  the  time 
my  name  was  given  to  thee  by  thy  mother.  Little  Joan, 
my  beloved,  I  am  the  spirit  of  Joan  of  Arc." 

Trembling  from  head  to  foot,  Joan  raised  her  tear- 
filled  eyes,  and  clasped  her  little  hands  on  high,  implor- 


Unconventional  Joan  189 

ingly.  Speechless  she  stood,  while  the  glory  of  her  guard- 
ian angel  flowed  over  her,  clothing  her  with  splendour. 

"Ere  I  became  thy  voice,  little  Joan,  a  voice  was  given 
to  me,  too,  and  it  led  me  apart  and  away  from  the  ways 
of  men  and  women  around  me,  as  I  have  led  thee  away, 
and  it  gave  me  a  mission  to  perform,  as  I  now  give  thee 
thy  mission.  Behold !" 

Joan  looked,  and  saw  far  back  into  the  past,  the  first 
war-march  of  Joan  of  Arc  against  the  tyrant.  Before 
her  eyes  moved  a  great  company  of  horsemen  riding  two 
and  two,  with  Joan  of  Arc  in  silver  armour,  astride  a 
white  stallion,  surrounded  by  the  applauding  mob  and 
bowing  her  plumed  head  to  left  and  right.  Bravely  glinted 
the  sun  upon  her  shining  panoply,  and  the  strains  of 
wind-blown  music  heralded  the  God-given  fighting 
strength  of  the  Maid! 

Thus  Joan  saw,  marvelling,  her  God-given  instinct — 
the  power  from  above  and  beyond  her  that  had  borne  her 
puny  self  unassailed  against  the  might  of  Convention. 

"Now  look  once  more."  The  noble  figure  pointed,  and, 
as  Joan  gazed,  the  pageant  faded  and  appeared  again 
transformed.  There  in  the  place  of  Joan  of  Arc  she  saw 
her  own  slight  figure,  clad  not  in  the  armour  of  war  but 
in  the  tatters  of  a  little  newsboy,  with  hair  close-cropped 
to  her  childish  head.  Behind  her  and  around  surged  a 
vast  army  of  workers,  newsboys  and  reporters,  in  the 
poor  garb  of  toil,  teachers  and  ministers,  fathers  stum- 
bling beneath  intolerable  burdens,  mothers  with  girl  in- 
fants in  their  arms,  downtrodden  sales-women,  and  all  the 
battered  subjects  of  the  despot.  And  as  they  charged,  she 
led  them,  against  the  Citadel  of  the  vicious  Press. 

"But  how  can  I  dare  ?"  the  little  Joan  protested  humbly. 


190  Unconventional  Joan 

"Thy  tyrant  is  more  evil  than  was  mine,"  said  Joan  of 
Arc. 

"But  they  will  call  me  eccentric — " 

"They  called  me  eccentric,  too." 

"If  it  is  commanded — " 

"It  is  thy  crusade  for  a  holy  cause,"  responded  her 
"voice."  "Look!" 

Her  army  of  the  oppressed  was  mustered  there  in 
Newspaper  Row,  full  and  surging  ever  fuller.  A  deep 
murmur  arose  from  the  great  multitude — an  instant's 
silence — and  then  a  stupendous  roar,  tremendous,  shatter- 
ing— 

"Joan!" 

The  figure  of  Keating  appeared  at  an  upper  window  of 
the  Record  building,  the  flag  of  liberty  unfurling  in  his 
hand. 

"Freedom  of  the  Press,"  he  shrieked  against  them. 

"Liberty  is  not  Tyranny,"  came  the  new-found  voice 
of  the  mob. 

Like  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  tide,  now  loud,  now  louder, 
Joan's  name  beat  upon  her  consciousness. 

"Joan!  Joan!" 

"I  am  coming,"  she  called  aloud  her  proud  response. 

And  in  the  light  of  the  new  day,  Joan  awoke  and 
prayed. 

IV 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  hardly  slept  an  hour;  but 
she  found  that  Margaret  had  gone,  and  her  father  was 
sitting  alone  at  the  breakfast  table,  before  his  untouched 
plate,  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  his  unread  papers  beside 
him. 


Unconventional  Joan  191 

They  had  not  awakened  Joan,  because  there  was  no 
longer  anywhere  for  her  to  go. 

She  stood  beside  the  Rector's  chair,  and  gently  en- 
circled his  throbbing  head  with  her  little  arm  and  drew 
it  to  her  breast,  where  she  held  him  for  a  moment,  think- 
ing to  comfort  him ;  then  pressed  her  lips  to  his  burning 
forehead  and  hurriedly  turned  to  go,  not  wanting  to  eat 
and  powerless  to  speak. 

The  telephone  bell  rang  faintly  as  she  passed  it  in  the 
hall,  on  her  way  out. 

"I'll — answer — it — Larry,"  she  said,  her  voice  choked 
with  sobs,  as  Larry  cautiously  stepped  aside,  out  of  her 
way,  and  quickly  guarded  his  legs  as  if  fearing  to  be 
kicked. 

"Hello,  hello,"  she  answered. 

"It's  nobody,  Larry,"  she  told  him.  "The  operator 
says  the  'phones  keep  ringing  because  the  circuits  are  out 
of  order." 

Larry  still  stood  out  of  reach  of  her  feet,  apparently  in 
dreadful  awe  of  them. 

"Poor  Larry,"  thought  Joan,  "poor  Larry  is  a  child 
again." 

The  telephone  prompted  her  to  call  up  Tom  Manly's 
bachelor  apartments.  She  wanted  to  talk  to  someone,  to 
him,  anyone,  about  her  new  plans.  She  realized  that  Tom 
would  not  be  at  the  News  office  at  this  hour  of  the  morn- 
ing— he  could  have  left  there  only  a  few  hours  before. 
But  she  could  hardly  wait  until  he  should  return  at  six 
o'clock  in  the  evening.  Still,  she  had  never  before  tele- 
phoned to  his  apartments,  and  she  did  not  like  to  do  so 
now.  She  decided  she  would  go  to  the  loft  first,  and  take 
care  of  the  Paregorics  once  again.  Perhaps  she  might 


192  Unconventional  Joan 

telephone  him  from  there.  On  the  way  she  encountered 
him  hurrying  over  to  the  loft  to  visit  her,  and  stood  with 
him  at  the  corner  that  was  so  intimately  identified  with 
her  life — where  she  had  last  seen  Jerry. 

Tom's  face  was  very  sober.  He  lost  no  time  with  for- 
malities. His  darkened  eyes  suggested  that  he  had  slept 
as  little  as  Joan.  In  his  right  hand  he  carried  a  rolled  up 
copy  of  the  Morning  Record,  which  he  emphatically 
slapped  against  his  trouser-leg  to  punctuate  the  merciless- 
ly practical  lashes  which  he  administered  to  her. 

She  needed  sympathy  and  craved  co-operation,  and  he 
gave  her  instead  vigorous  opposition  and  condemnation. 

"Joan,  you  need  a  guardian,"  he  began,  to  remind  her 
vividly  of  her  loneliness. 

Joan  thought  of  her  "voice,"  and  felt  she  had  a  very 
good  guardian  already.  She  replied  to  him: 

"It  isn't  what  I  need  that  matters.  It  is  what  others 
need.  The  world  needs  a  mother — mothers — aggressive 
moral  influences." 

"Feminine  aggressiveness — "  Tom  started  to  say,  dep- 
recatingly. 

"Yes,  some  of  your  American  'pep' — for  moral  profit. 
You're  full  of  it  over  here.  You  want  everybody  to 
have  some  of  it.  You  saturate  the  air  with  it.  It's  in- 
escapable, and  I've  caught  it  now — and  caught  it  badly. 
You  are  going  to  see  how  it  works — in  a  woman — in  a 
woman  who  is  disgusted  with  the  lack  of  it  for  moral  pur- 
poses in  some  men." 

"Joan,  Joan — please,  Joan — "  He  tried  to  quiet  her. 

The  little  mother  of  the  tea-shop — defiant. 

Gentle,  tranquil,  placid  by  temperament  —  decisively 
indomitable  upon  occasion. 


Unconventional  Joan  193 

"Joan,  I  have  never  seen  you  act  like  this  before — 
you're  going  mad.  You've  tried  to  revolutionize  the 
Press,  you  wouldn't  listen  to  my  advice,  and  you  have 
failed,  been  kicked  out  and  disgraced — ' 

"I  am  going  to  try  again,"  she  retorted  hotly. 

"And  you'll  get  hated  for  life  if  you  do.  You  are 
courting  annihilation." 

Joan  made  no  reply.  She  dared  not  tell  him  her  plan, 
now.  She  wanted  help,  not  interference. 

He  continued: 

"You  have  learned  what  a  bad  newspaper  is,  you  have 
had  experience — " 

"I  am  going  to  get  some  more,"  she  shot  back  at  him, 
getting  hotter. 

"They'll  work  up  a  case  against  you,  they'll  hound  you 
until  you  come  to  realize  what  side  your  bread  is  buttered 
on,"  he  replied. 

Joan  thought,  "What  a  humiliating  confession  for  a 
newspaper  editor  to  make !" 

"Tom,  why  don't  you  attack  the  Record  and  its  policy 
and  save  me  from  disgrace?"  It  was  a  leading  question. 

"Nobody  believes  the  Record.  Everyone  discounts  its 
articles.  Therefore,  what's  the  use?  And  besides,  if  the 
Neivs  attacked  the  Record  we  would  stir  up  the  Record 
and  make  what's  bad  enough  still  worse." 

Joan  noted  the  inconsistency  with  which  he  belittled  the 
Record's  influence  and  yet  feared  to  intensify  it.  She 
pressed  him: 

"The  Record's  policy  of  sensational  exposure  is  no 
worse  than  a  conspiracy  of  silence  concerning  things  as 
they  really  are." 

He  parried  with  a  warning: 


194  Unconventional  Joan 

"Keating  didn't  take  you  on  his  staff  on  merit,  you 
know.  He  had  some  kind  of  other  motive." 

He  had  not  been  able  to  lead  her.  He  had  decided  to 
master  her.  But  he  hesitated.  Joan  had  never  seemed 
more  alluringly  indomitable  than  she  did  at  this  moment. 
Standing  so  much  apart  from  every  one,  there  at  the 
corner,  with  hundreds  of  other  women  passing  back  and 
forth  beside  her,  her  lonesome  little  form  stood  out  con- 
spicuously against  the  larger  figures  of  the  others  as  a 
background. 

"So  much  smaller,  and  yet  so  much  stronger-willed," 
he  reflected. 

"Joan,"  he  went  on,  pleadingly,  "I  don't  believe  you 
really  care  for  what  you  are  attempting.  You  are  doing 
it  as  a  sort  of  duty,  but  you  don't  like  it,  do  you?" 

She  took  some  time  to  answer  him.  She  knew  he  was 
telling  her  what  he  thought  would  be  best  for  her.  It  was 
his  practical  way  of  seeing  things.  She  pitied  him  for  his 
limitations,  but  she  was  not  inappreciative,  nor  ungrate- 
ful for  his  interest  in  her. 

"If  I  say  'Yes,  I  like  it,'  I  might  seem  to  be  merely 
selfish.  If  I  say  'No,  I  do  not  like  it,'  I  shall  not  be  tell- 
ing the  truth.  There  have  been  things  about  it  that  were 
not  likable.  I  know  there  are  going  to  be  others  just  as 
unpleasant.  But  I  will  tell  you,  that  my  mission — my 
work,  I  mean — what  I  intend  to  do,  means  more  than 
anything  in  the  world — " 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  remembering  how  much  Jerry 
had  meant  to  her,  and  wondering  if  anything  could  pos- 
sibly come  to  mean  as  much. 

"It  absorbs  me,  if  that  is  what  you  mean  by  liking  it. 
I  will  allow  nothing  to  compete  with  it." 


Unconventional  Joan  195 

She  began  to  flush  deeply.  A  firmer  tone  came  into  her 
voice.  Her  beautiful  eyes  were  aglow  with  enthusiasm. 

"You  may  think  me  'grotesque' — a  sort  of  female  oddi- 
ty, but  my  whole  heart  is  in  it.  What  I  have  seen  has 
made  me  decide  that  someone  simply  must  take  up  and  at 
least  start  the  struggle  against  the  tyranny  of  the  vicious 
Press.  It  must  be  overturned,  and  only  fighting  will  do 
it.  And  I  am  going  to  enjoy  the  fight — I  tell  you  that 
candidly.  The  obstructions,  the  condemnations,  the  plots, 
the  villainous  tactics  to  be  used  against  me,  are  going  to 
stimulate  instead  of  intimidating  me.  I  would  not  give  it 
up  for  any  man — or  woman — "  she  added  the  last  two 
words  rather  hurriedly,  for  fear  he  might  fancy  that  she 
had  betrayed  a  feeling  for  him. 

Her  hurry  to  cover  up  or  conceal  the  apparent  slip  of 
her  tongue  did  not  escape  him.  A  dying  hope  breathed 
again  within  him. 

"One  never  knows,  Joan,  what  one  will  give  up  for  a 
friend — a  real  friend,"  he  ventured. 

"Perhaps  not,"  she  replied  as  she  moved  on  her  way 
to  see  Margaret,  "but  maybe  a  friend — a  real  friend — 
wouldn't  demand  it." 

He  followed  her  eyes  as  they  scanned  the  unconsciously 
driven  crowd  and  then  looked  vindictively  from  the  mass 
of  hurrying  figures  up  to  the  fourth  floor  of  the  Record 
building. 

"Joan,"  he  pleaded,  as  if  to  detain  her,  "can  I—can  I 
ever  be  your  friend — a  real  friend — "  He  stopped,  be- 
lieving that  he  saw  a  soft  moisture  in  her  eyes. 

She  was  thinking  of  Jerry's  love  for  her,  that  had  been 
revealed  at  this  same  corner,  in  the  midst  of  the  bustling 
traffic,  and  remembering  his  test  of  true  love:  "Proof  of. 


196  Unconventional  Joan 

love  and  right  to  be  loved  is  based  on  sacrifice  alone." 
She  had  repeated  that  to  Tom  once  before.  She  suspected 
that  he  might  be  thinking  of  it  now  as  he  spoke  to  her. 
She  was  thinking  of  his  patient  and  aggressive  efforts 
to  influence  her — aggressiveness  like  that  which  she  was 
about  to  use — like  that  which  his  countrymen — her  coun- 
trymen now — believed  wins  everything,  eventually.  She 
found  herself  speculating  on  the  impossibility  of  ever 
capitulating — of  ever  being  influenced  by  determined 
Tom. 

"I  think,  Joan,"  he  continued,  "I  think  I  could  help 
you — I  think  I  could  save  you  from  terrible  things  right 
now — I  think  I  could  save  you  from  yourself." 

She  looked  at  him  in  her  motherly  little  way,  and  re- 
plied: 

"I  probably  shouldn't  merit  a  friendship  of  sacrifice, 
Tom;  but  for  your  own  sake,  be  brave  enough  to  save 
yourself,  and  make  me  happy  too,  by  letting  me  know 
when  you  get  the  courage  to  do  it." 

She  let  the  Paregorics  wait,  and  crossed  hurriedly  over 
the  street  in  the  direction  of  Margaret's  book  shop,  leav- 
ing him  standing  alone  and  looking  after  her. 

What  did  she  mean? 

Was  she  flinging  his  own  words  back  into  his  face  ? 

No!  As  she  reached  the  other  side  of  the  street  she 
deliberately  turned  around  and  looked  back  at  him. 

The  suspicion  that  she  could  love  him  shook  him  to 
the  depths  of  his  soul. 

She  passed  out  of  sight  into  the  book  shop. 

He  could  remember  the  blush  on  her  face  as  she  listened 
to  his  halting  words,  and  her  eyes  full  of  light  as  she 
earnestly  looked  at  him  and  said: 


Unconventional  Joan  197 

"Make  me  happy,  too,  by  letting  me  know  when  you 
get  the  courage  to  do  it."  "To  do  what?"  he  wondered. 
"She  was  talking  of  sacrifice."  He  pondered,  and  re- 
membered, and  never  ceased  to  remember,  until  the  time 
came  to  tell  her. 


Trinity  Church  Book  Shop  was  empty  of  customers. 

An  ugly  notice  tacked  on  the  front  door  announced  the 
date  of  a  "Bankruptcy  Sale." 

Next  door  roared  the  presses  of  the  News  manufactur- 
ing "fiction"  for  a  hundred  thousand  readers. 

Inside,  Margaret  sat  and  stared  at  the  morning  copy 
of  th«  Record  bearing  an  account  of  the  "Failure  of 
Preacher  Holden's  Book  Shop." 

"It  doesn't  matter,  Margie,"  Joan  kept  repeating  to  her. 
"It  doesn't  matter.  It  can  be  started  all  over  again,  like 
new.  Five  hundred  concerns  are  failing  every  week — " 

"But  he  does  not  know,"  sobbed  Margaret. 

Joan  remembered  the  Rector  sitting  with  his  papers 
unread,  as  she  left  him. 

The  telephone  bell  rang. 

"No  need  to  answer  it,"  said  Margaret,  dully,  "We 
are  not  allowed  to  sell  anything." 

"No  need  anyhow,"  added  Joan.  "The  'phone  circuits 
are  in  trouble  to-day.  It's  nobody." 

"The  Record  claims  that  the  telephone  currents  are 
being  interfered  with  by  wireless  amateurs,"  said  Mar- 
garet. "Nobody  will  believe  that,  but  it  gives  them  a 
pretext  for  starting  a  campaign  to  control  the  amateur 
news-gatherers  by  recommending  the  use  of  standardized 
receiving  sets.  At  the  commencement  of  wireless  tele- 


198  Unconventional  Joan 

phony,  the  Record  enviously  fought  general  use  of  it  by 
complaining  about  the  'jamming  of  the  air.'  Then  it 
fought  to  restrict  radio-broadcasting  to  music,  when  what 
the  people  want  is  news.  People  can  get  better  music  out 
of  their  phonographs  than  they  can  get  out  of  the  air. 
And  now  the  Record  wants  limited  receiving-sets  as  well 
as  controlled  broadcasting." 

Margaret's  comment  made  Joan  remember  Jerry's  pre- 
diction about  this. 

The  telephone  summoned  them  again,  insistently. 

"I'll  answer  it,  Margie,"  said  Joan,  "You  just  sit  there 
and  brush  away  those  tears." 

"Hello!" 

"Oh,  is  that  you,  Larry? — What? — Yes! — what?  you 
mean? — oh  Larry — " 

Joan's  face  turned  deathly  pale.  Margaret  spasmodi- 
cally clutched  at  her  weak  heart  and  gasped. 

"Oh  Margie,  poor  Margie,"  sobbed  Joan,  helplessly, 
"Your  father — I  left  him  at  the  table — he  had  not  read 
the  Record — Larry  says  he  opened  it  after  I  left — read 
it —  and — and  fainted — heart  attack — the  doctor  has  been 
there— they  have  put  him  to  bed — poor  Daddy  Holden — 
poor  dear  Margie — there — there,  that's  a  dear  good  girl, 
don't  take  it  so  hard — we'll  have  to  help  him  to  be  brave — 
Margie,  we'll  have  to  help  him  to  keep  being  brave." 

Hysterically  they  hurried  home. 

VI 

Joan  and  Margaret  and  Larry  watched  beside  the  Rec- 
tor's bed. 

Joan  and  Margaret  watched  his  ashen  face,  Larry's 
dazed  eyes  stared  wildly  at  the  faces  of  all  three. 


Unconventional  Joan  199 

"All  of  us  mad,"  he  reflected.  "Soon  the  Rector  will 
be  free." 

The  doctor  had  done  what  he  could. 

"Just  watch  him,"  he  had  said,  "until  I  return." 

Joan  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  knelt  with 
Margaret  beside  the  bed.  Her  eyes  strained  heavily  from 
weeping  and  watching  the  death  mask  creeping  stealthily 
over  the  sick  man's  face.  Tomorrow,  and  the  next  day, 
and  weeks  and  years  would  come — and  Daddy  Holden 
would  not  be  there.  For  nearly  three  years  of  her  life 
he  had  influenced  her.  Sixty  years  of  age,  and  all  of  it 
devoted  to  influencing  others — unsuccessfully ! 

A  failure! 

The  thought  of  it  suffocated  her.  She  was  overcome. 
Worn  out  with  sleeplessness  and  worry,  she  gradually 
sank  into  a  heavy  slumber,  half  flung  across  the  bed. 

"No,  not  a  failure,"  she  heard  a  familiar  voice  say. 

"But  I  am  a  failure,"  she  heard  the  Rector  reply.  "I 
am  going  at  the  very  end  of  years  of  failure — and  I  am 
afraid — I  am  afraid." 

She  watched  him.  He  was  turning  round.  He  wanted 
to  go  back — shrinking,  cowering,  terrible  beyond  endur- 
ance to  behold,  he  began  to  weep.  Deep  sobs  shook  his 
agonized  body,  and  great  tears  rolled  down  his  furrowed 
face. 

"Have  no  fear,  comrade,"  said  the  familiar  voice, 
"thou  hast  not  failed — thou  hast  been  brave !" 

Joan  looked  and  saw  that  it  was  the  spirit  of  Joan  of 
Arc  speaking. 

"Oh,  Joan  of  Arc,  help  him !"  she  cried. 

"Joan,  you  here?"  the  dying  man  pleaded,  stretching 
out  his  hands  towards  her. 


2OO  Unconventional  Joan 

"Yes,  Joan  is  here  to  comfort  thee,"  replied  the  spirit 
of  Joan  of  Arc.  "I  am  her  voice.  Thou  hast  influenced 
her  and  helped  her  to  be  brave  like  thyself.  That  was  thy 
mission — to  influence  others.  That  shall  be  her  mission, 
too.  She  will  remain  behind  a  while  to  carry  on  thy 
work.  She  is  younger  and  stronger,  and  I  will  help  her. 
So  thou  art  not  a  failure.  Look,  she  gives  thee  her  hand 
to  help  thee  over.  It  is  but  a  step." 

Joan  could  not  see  for  blinding  tears.  His  hand  slipped 
from  her  grasp. 

"But  I  know — I  am  a  failure,"  sobbed  the  Rector,  un- 
comforted  yet,  tortured  by  despair  and  dread  in  his  utter 
weakness. 

Joan  saw  him  turn  again  to  her  and  stretch  out  his 
arms. 

"Come,  brave  comrade!"  The  voice  of  Joan  of  Arc 
rang  out,  convincing  in  its  strength  and  help. 

Once  more  Joan  saw  him  turn  to  her,  on  the  very 
threshold,  and  as  he  looked  at  her  through  his  tears,  he 
smiled  happily  now  and  called  back  to  her: 

"Joan,  be  brave." 

Margaret  clutched  her  hysterically,  awakened  her  and 
cried,  "He  is  gone !" 

Dead! 

Joan  stared  at  the  beloved  face — the  same  smile  on  it 
that  she  had  seen  in  her  sleep. 

On  Larry's  face  shone  an  answering  smile  of  insane 
satisfaction. 

"Better  dead  than  mad,"  he  exclaimed. 

Margaret,  sobbing  in  a  frenzied  grief,  glared  bitterly 
at  the  maniac,  tragically  tempting  him  to  send  her  to  her 
parent  scarcely  sooner  than  the  unbearable  anquish  of 


Unconventional  Joan  201 

her  separation  from  him  might  unaggravated  have  done. 

"You  too,"  grinned  the  madman,  savagely  reaching 
for  her  neck  with  his  twitching  fingers. 

And  terrorized  Margaret,  clutching  at  her  weak  heart 
already  fatally  overstrained  by  her  shock  of  grief,  crum- 
pled up  dead  from  fright. 

"And  it's  time  for  you,  too."  cackled  the  frantic 
lunatic,  moving  murderously  towards  Joan. 

Joan  realized  she  was  dying  before  he  reached  her.  The 
horrible  creature,  gliding  stealthily  towards  her  across 
Margaret's  dead  body,  was  killing  her  as  he  came.  She 
stood  wavering,  trembling,  unable  to  move.  A  bare  frac- 
tion of  a  second  remained  to  her  before  her  end.  Driven 
by  desperation,  she  feebly  took  a  half-step  towards  him, 
instinctively  lifted  her  right  foot  threateningly  as  his 
hands  reached  for  her  throat,  menacing  him  with  the 
punishment  which  she  had  taught  him  to  fear,  and  hope- 
lessly screamed  in  his  face: 

"Larry,  do  you  want  me  to  kick  you  on  the  shins/1" 

The  trivial  phrase  touched  the  one  chord  of  response 
in  the  unhinged  mind. 

Stronger  than  his  weakened  mind  his  sense  of  self- 
preservation  dominated  him. 

The  wild  thing  stopped  in  his  tracks,  covered  up  his 
legs  with  his  arms,  whimpered  like  a  baby,  and  slunk 
back,  afraid  of  her,  into  the  pantry,  where  submissively 
he  went  about  his  usual  duties,  until  when  the  doctor  rang 
the  bell  and  the  parrot  screeched  his  usual  greeting,  he 
fiendishly  wrung  the  bird's  neck,  threw  it  into  the  Rec- 
tor's bed-room,  then  let  the  doctor  in  and  leeringly  in- 
formed him: 

"All  the  crazy  inmates  of  this  damned  booby-hatch 


202  Unconventional  Joan 

have  come  to  a  timely  death  in  there,   excepting  me." 
The  doctor  went  in  and  tried  to  revive  Joan. 

VII 

On  Sunday  the  Rector  delivered  his  sermon  against 
the  "Tyranny  of  the  Vicious  Press," — not  the  one  he  had 
intended,  but  the  most  effective  of  his  career. 

In  the  hearts  of  thousands  who  jammed  Newspaper 
Row  and  bared  their  heads  as  the  two  caskets  were  borne 
into  Trinity  Church  was  sown  the  seed  of  a  revolution 
needing  only  a  leader's  word  of  command  to  make  it 
sprout  over  night  and  burst  forth  in  the  morning. 

"Heart  attacks."  said  the  newspapers. 

"Press  attacks,"  said  the  readers. 

Relatives,  cold  and  mercenary  as  most  relatives  are, 
took  quick  and  calculating  charge  of  the  Rector's  effects, 
and  gave  Joan  until  the  morning  after  the  funeral  to 
leave. 

The  Church  elders  met  and  issued  a  call  to  the  pastor 
of  a  rival  city's  most  popular  Church.  It  would  be  his 
function  to  reorganize  the  book  shop. 

The  city  authorities  summarily  despatched  Larry  to 
an  ay  slum,  and,  as  he  left  he  whispered  to  Joan  that  it 
was  "a  most  timely  thing  to  do." 

Alone  in  her  room,  for  the  last  time,  on  Sunday 
evening,  Joan,  prostrated,  remembered  Tom's  earnest 
words :  "I  think  I  could  save  you  from  terrible  things — " 

Terrible  things ! 

Terrible  things  were  happening  to  her,  crowding  and 
closing  in  upon  her. 

Frightful  things! 

Maddening  things! 


Unconventional  Joan  203 

How  was  she  to  live  and  not  go  crazy,  remembering 
them! 

"The  penalty  for  oddness  is  dementia/'  the  Rector  had 
said. 

The  spectre  of  insanity  loomed  up  before  her  and 
pointed  to  the  accusing  symptoms  that  already  marked 
her  as  his  own — her  moonlight  aberrations — her  hallucin- 
ations about  Joan  of  Arc — her  quarrel  with  Tom — and 
then,  the  breaking  point,  the  shock  of  the  awful  deaths ! 

"The  penalty  -for  oddness  is  dementia!"  she  repeated. 

Mentally  agitated  she  groped  hopelessly  for  something 
to  lean  upon — counting  her  losses — 

Jerry  gone ! 

The  Rector  gone! 

Margaret  gone! 

Her  home  gone ! 

Her  employment  gone! 

Keating  hating  her ! 

Tom  fighting  her! 

The  loft! — she  could  sleep  there — but  could  she  live 
there  with  its  memories? — could  she  stand  it? — the  Par- 
egorics!— she  suddenly  recollected  that  she  had  not  seen 
them,  had  not  fed  them  since  Thursday — she  had  lost 
them,  too! 

Everything  gone! 

She  knew  that  she  could  not  go  on — she  could  not 
endure  it.  She  was  probably  mad  already.  How  in  pity 
could  she  be  expected  to  want  to  live  ? 

But  she  had  to  live!  Overwhelming  realization!  To 
have  to  live  and  not  want  to  live ! 

Compelled,  condemned  to  live !  More  terrible  than  the 
sentence  of  death! 


204  Unconventional  Joan 

O  agony  unspeakably  more  awful  than  the  agony  of 
death ! 

She  moved  about  among  her  few  belongings,  gather- 
ing them  together,  mechanically,  lifelessly,  as  in  a  trance. 

Delirious  in  her  desolation,  she  began,  incoherently, 
to  talk  to  herself: 

"Tomorrow — if  I  could  get  through  the  night — per- 
haps tomorrow  I  could  want  to  live — but  to-night — alone 
— it  is  unbearable  to-night — I  am  afraid  to-night — God, 
show  me  how  to  die  without  offending  you — to-night — " 

God  would  answer  her  prayer  and  show  her  how.  She 
felt  sure  of  it.  She  made  ready. 

Jerry's  picture,  and  the  legacy  of  his  diary  must  be 
with  her  at  the  end — she  clasped  them  to  her  tightly, 
caressing  them  and  mothering  them  childishly. 

"I  am  ready  now,"  she  sobbed. 

The  little  mother  of  the  tea-shop — demented. 

"It  won't  take  much — to-night,"  she  confidingly  per- 
suaded— "it  won't  take  much — you  see,  I've  suffered  so 
much — I  can't  stand  much  more — I  can't — " 

Her  ramblings  suddenly  ceased.  It  had  come  to  her. 
She  had  thought  of  the  way.  She  could  end  it  all  and  not 
offend  God.  She  could  do  it  honourably.  She  could  do  it 
by  actually  starting  to  perform  her  mission  delegated  by 
Joan  of  Arc.  The  discovery  of  the  way  brought  comfort 
to  her  tortured  heart.  She  went  about  it  calmly  and 
mechanically,  bereft  of  reason,  dazed. 

The  little  mirror  on  her  dressing-table  had  told  her 
how.  Her  beautiful  tresses!  Memories  of  her  dear 
mother  who  had  treasured  them  and  cared  for  them !  She 
dotingly  toyed  with  them  as  she  remembered  her  mother 
to  have  done — fondled  them,  as  she  fondled  Jerry's  pic- 


Unconventional  Joan  205 

ture  close  to  her  breast,  childishly,  pathetically  unsettled 
in  her  mind.  Her  remaining  treasures — all  that  were 
left — mementos  of  her  mother  and  of  Jerry.  Jerry  should 
go  with  her— just  as  he  was,  in  her  arms,  she  decided ; 
but  her  mother's  treasure,  her  tresses — must  go  first. 
That  would  be  the  way.  To  be  faithful  to  her  mission 
and  to  Joan  of  Arc  they  would  have  to  go.  That  would 
kill  her — to-night — she  was  deliriously  certain.  So  she 
could  go  at  once,  in  the  very  act  of  beginning  her  mission. 
That  would  be  honourable. 

Moving  listlessly,  as  if  walking  in  her  sleep,  she 
brought  two  envelopes  to  contain  her  locks.  On  one  of 
them  she  wrote: 

"For  Jerry,  if  he  ever  returns." 

She  lingered  many  minutes  over  his  name,  living  over 
again,  at  the  end,  what  had  been  the  sweetest  experience 
of  her  life. 

On  the  other  envelope  she  wrote: 

"For  Tom." 

Snip,  snip,  snip  clicked  the  scissors  in  her  determined 
little  fingers. 

"To  make  me  like  a  boy — and  like  Joan  of  Arc,"  she 
prattled. 

She  dared  not  look  in  the  mirror. 

Snip,  snip,  snip,  snip- 
It  was  all  gone  now — everything  was  gone ! 

She  had  come  to  the  absolute  end  of  everything ! 

She  looked  in  the  mirror — turned  deathly  white — 
looked  at  her  tresses  lying  on  the  table — then  felt  her 
head  go  dropping  down  and  her  cheek  touching  them,  as 
she  yielded  to  the  sweet  relief  that  gently  closed  her  eyes 
and  ended  her  unendurable  strain. 


CHAPTER  XII 


AT  the  corner. 

•*•  ^    "Extra,   News/'   called   a    soft-voiced,    shivering 
newsboy,  at  six  o'clock  on  Monday  evening. 

"Extra,  Record,"  shouted  a  rough-voiced,  stronger 
boy,  glowering  at  his  frail  new  competitor,  as  they  both 
rushed  for  the  two  editors,  who  were  meeting,  as  usual, 
with  the  cordiality  of  rival  gladiators. 

"News,  Mister,"  persuaded  the  soft-voiced  newsboy 
in  the  new  pair  of  knickers. 

Tom  Manly  pricked  up  his  ears.  Had  he  not  heard  that 
voice  before? 

Keating's  inscrutable  eyes  measured  the  boy  from  head 
to  foot. 

Pogo  had  not  yet  turned  on  his  electric  sign  to  brighten 
the  darkening  street. 

Both  men  bought  both  papers,  as  usual,  started  to 
read  them,  and  the  newsboys  disappeared. 

"Who's  the  new  kid?"  enquired  an  elderly  newsman 
of  a  newswoman.  "Looks  a  little  queer.  Something 
wrong  with  him,  eh,  Nell?" 

"Been  through  hell,  I  guess,  like  most  kids  nowadays," 
observed  Nell. 

Joan's  little  heart  beat  wildly  with  exultation,  as  she 
left  Tom  and  Keating.  The  test  had  been  a  success.  It 
was  her  first  victory.  She  had  prepared  so  carefully  for 
it  in  the  loft  during  the  day. 

Arriving  at  the  loft  very  early,  unnoticed,  she  found 
the  Paregoric  family  famished,  but  faithfully  waiting 
and  hoping.  All  her  original  army  had  returned  too. 

206 


Unconventional  Joan  207 

Such  a  noisy  welcome  they  gave  her !  As  well  as  she 
could  she  entered  into  their  happiness  with  them. 

"I'm  not  quite  myself,"  she  explained,  "or  we  would 
have  a  livelier  time." 

There  was  no  food,  so  she  went  out  to  get  them  somo 
and  on  the  way  made  several  purchases  at  out-of-the-way 
shops. 

After  the  dogs  had  been  fed  she  cut  and  disfigured  her 
newly  bought  knickers  in  several  places  to  make  them 
look  old  and  worn,  artistically  soiled  her  new  blouse  by 
rubbing  it  on  the  floor,  and  after  a  careful  toilet,  hiding 
in  the  loft  during  the  day,  she  had  ventured  out  at  dark, 
actually  challenging  Tom  and  Keating  to  recognize  her. 

Thrilled  with  her  success,  her  face  was  radiant  as  she 
slipped  away. 

"What  yer  doin'  on  my  corner?"  the  rough-voiced 
newsboy  with  the  Records  growled  in  her  ear,  as  he 
overtook  her. 

Joan  turned  and  faced  her  antagonist  for  a  moment 
in  dismay. 

The  next  moment  she  felt  the  crack  of  his  fist  as  it 
landed  squarely  on  her  eye  and  bowled  her  over  into  a 
kneeling  group  of  newsboys  who  were  matching  pennies. 

She  was  stunned  for  an  instant,  but  scrambled  to  her 
feet  and  looked  for  a  policeman.  There  was  one  across 
the  street.  She  remembered  having  seen  him  looking 
towards  her  just  as  she  was  struck.  Possibly  he  expected 
her  to  be  attacked.  His  face  was  now  discreetly  turned 
away. 

"Wallop  him  back,  kid,"  encouraged  the  middle-aged 
newsman,  with  copies  of  the  News  under  his  arm.  His 
attitude  seemed  to  say  "I  am  with  you." 


208  Unconventional  Joan 

Later  on  Joan  learned  that  he  was  an  official  slugger 
for  the  News,  employed  to  beat  up  anybody  who  inter- 
fered with  the  sale  of  its  papers.  Later  on  she  also 
learned  that  policemen  would  not  have  dared  to  prohibit 
any  of  the  corner-wars  of  either  newspaper. 

"He  ain't  got  no  right  on  my  corner,"  bullied  the 
rough-voiced  seller  of  Records,  itching  to  plant  a  second 
blow  on  Joan's  other  eye. 

"He  can  go  where  he  pleases,"  retorted  the  middle-aged 
newsman.  "Smash  him  back,  kid." 

"You  go  to  hell,"  responded  the  young  Record  bully, 
backing  away,  afraid  of  the  older  man,  but  not  in  the 
least  afraid  of  Joan.  "I'll  fix  him,"  he  vindictively 
promised  as  he  slunk  away  unsatisfied. 

The  disappointed  audience  of  newsboys  went  back  to 
its  game  of  matching  pennies. 

II 

"He's  blacked  your  eye,  kid,"  the  woman  with  news- 
papers under  her  arm  said  to  Joan. 

That  was  comforting.  Joan  had  believed  he  had  torn 
off  the  top  of  her  head. 

"I'll  buy  Records  and  beat  him  by  selling  more  of  them 
on  his  corner  than  he  does.  That's  what  I'll  do,"  vouch- 
safed Joan,  by  way  of  re-establishing  herself  in  the 
estimation  of  her  new-found  friends. 

"You  can't  do  that,"  the  middle-aged  newsman  in- 
formed her.  "You  can't  sell  our  papers  and  the  Records 
too.  You're  green  at  this,  aren't  you?"  He  sym- 
pathetically scrutinized  Joan's  haggard  face. 

And  Joan  had  gone  to  the  pains  of  making  her  clothes 
look  old,  and  thought  she  was  acting  so  cleverly ! 


Unconventional  Joan  209 

It  was  useless  to  pretend ! 

"Yes,  I  have  just  started,"  she  admitted.  "Have  you 
got  to  fight  in  this  job?" 

"That's  the  newspaper  game,  fighting,  you  know!" 

Yes,  she  remembered !    Fighting  the  powerless ! 

The  News  had  certainly  picked  a  capable  ally  when  it 
selected  the  middle-aged  man  to  do  its  fighting.  She  had 
followed  him  and  the  newswoman  into  the  alley  behind 
the  News  building,  and  she  had  ample  opportunity  to 
observe  his  typical  newspaper  prowess  as  he  blusteringly 
terrorized  the  youngsters  waiting  for  papers. 

He  had  a  crude  but  telling  way  of  maintaining  order. 
As  he  swaggered  about,  swearing  and  admonishing,  he 
gave  a  kick  here  and  a  shove  there,  and,  in  a  miniature 
way,  acted  towards  the  newsboys  exactly  as  the  Press 
acted  towards  the  public,  Joan  thought,  taunting  them, 
filling  them  with  fear  of  his  power  to  crush  them.  They 
dared  show  nothing  but  a  cringing  respect  for  him,  just 
as  the  intimidated  public  truckled  to  the  tyrannical  Press. 
It  was  as  if  he  were  the  monster's  shadow  itself. 

"Damn  you,"  he  said,  cursing  at  a  harmless  little  waif, 
"get  in  line." 

His  constant  and  lurid  explosion  of  oaths  appalled 
Joan. 

"This  is  one  of  the  kindergarten  tutors  of  the  most 
powerful  educational  institution  in  the  world!"  she 
thought. 

Looking  at  his  pupils  as  they  smoked  cigarettes  and 
matched  pennies,  and  listening  to  their  thoughtless 
blasphemies,  Joan  considered  the  chances  against  them, 
and  concluded  that  the  devil  could  not  do  a  more  thorough 
job  than  this  department  of  the  Press  was  doing. 


210  Unconventional  Joan 

Soon  she  understood  the  source  of  some  of  the  elderly 
newsman's  vehemence.  She  saw  him  covertly  take  a  small 
quantity  of  white  powder  from  a  little  box  and  draw  it 
up  into  his  nostrils.  The  newswoman  took  some,  too. 

"Drug  fiends !" 

Joan  shudderingly  pitied  them,  and  sitting  down  on  a 
box  there  in  the  alley  between  them,  drew  from  them 
fragments  of  their  bitter  experiences,  aided  by  the 
stimulant  they  had  taken. 

in 

"That's  right.  I  am  giving  it  to  you  straight.  I  might 
have  been  the  editor  of  the  News  today.  They'll  tell  you 
upstairs  that  I  was  one  of  the  best  reporters  they  ever 
had.  But  it  got  me,  like  it  gets  lots  of  them.  Night 
work !  Brain  fag !  Tobacco !  Alcohol !  More  booze — 
finally  dope — couldn't  turn  out  the  right  kind  of  copy 
after  a  while — got  notice — gave  me  this  job — pays  me 
just  as  well — I'm  satisfied — eh,  Nell  ?" 

The  newswoman  brooded  aloud  over  her  own  record, 
by  way  of  reply.  She  was  more  vivid  than  the  newsman. 
She  evidently  felt  her  position  more  keenly. 

"It's  hell,  Bill;  there's  no  satisfaction  in  it,  and  you 
know  it,"  she  replied.  "You  can  forget.  I  can't.  I 
can  never  forget.  I'm  living  it  over  all  the  time." 

She  began  to  cry.  The  drug  affected  her  that  way. 
Joan  put  an  arm  around  her  and  comforted  her.  Nobody 
had  done  that  for  years.  Not  even  Bill.  He  looked  at  the 
gratitude  welling  up  in  Nell's  eyes,  then  looked  at  Joan 
and  realized  that  a  simple  little  touch  of  nature  had 
suddenly  made  the  three  of  them  pals.  He  softened 
perceptibly. 


Unconventional  Joan  211 

"She's  a  good  scout,  kid,"  he  said  to  Joan.  "Stick  to 
her.  This  is  new  stuff  to  you,  and  she  can  help  you — " 

"I  have  been  a  reporter,  too,  just  like  you,"  Joan 
hastened  to  correct  him. 

"Ha,  ha,  that's  a  good  one,"  roared  Bill,  and  almost 
tumbled  off  the  box,  as  he  depreciatingly  scanned  Joan's 
diminutive  form. 

Nell  examined  Joan  shrewdly  through  her  tears. 

"What's  the  big  idea?"  she  asked. 

"I  worked  for  Keating,"  Joan  quietly  replied. 

"He's  a  Record  spy,  Nell,"  Bill  said.  "Kid,  you're  in 
the  wrong  alley." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  protested  Joan.  "In  fact  I  am  sure 
I  am  just  where  I  ought  to  be,  sitting  here  between  you 
two,  and  I  am  going  to  stay."  That  sounded  author- 
itative and  made  an  impression. 

"Well,  what's  the  game,  kid?  You're  no  infant.  Let 
us  in  on  it,"  answered  Bill. 

"Bill,"  Joan  replied,  with  friendly  presumption,  "Nell 
says  you  are  not  satisfied  with  things  as  they  are.  That's 
right,  isn't  it?" 

"Ha,  ha,  the  precocious  kid's  a  nut,  Nell.  He's  crazy. 
He's  going  to  start  a  revolution,"  burst  out  Bill. 

"Bill,  you  answer  my  question,"  insisted  Joan,  still 
treating  him  with  innocent  familiarity. 

Bill  was  not  accustomed  to  insistence.  That  was  his 
own  prerogative.  He  looked  at  Nell. 

Nell  felt  Joan's  arm  still  around  her.  Her  eyes  warned 
Bill  that  the  kid  had  won  her.  Bill  fancied  that  the  kid 
was  going  to  master  him,  too.  To  them  the  influence 
that  Joan  exerted  upon  them  was  strange  but  undeniable. 
They  could  not  know,  of  course,  that  all  the  unconscious 


212  Unconventional  Joan 

power  of  her  womanhood  was  enlisted  in  Joan's  aid  in 
this,  her  supreme  effort  for  the  cause  which  she  had 
fantastically  taken  to  her  heart. 

"Yes,  that's  right,"  Bill  answered  her. 

"Well,  Bill,  that  being  the  case,  it's  up  to  us  men,  you 
and  me  and  the  rest  of  us,  to  make  things  satisfactory  not 
only  to  ourselves  but  to  the  women,  like  Nell  here." 

Joan's  diplomatic  assumption  of  Nell's  co-operative 
sympathy  elicited  from  the  newswoman  an  eloquent  and 
emotional  endorsement  of  any  attempt  that  might  be 
proposed  to  undo  the  conditions  that  had  brought  her  to 
where  she  was. 

"Kid,  I'm  with  you.  Why  shouldn't  I  be?  Look  at 
me !  You  wouldn't  think  it,  but  I  used  to  be  this  city's 
biggest  department  store's  star  saleswoman." 

She  emphasized  it,  suspecting  Joan  would  think  the 
drug  was  making  her  exaggerate: 

"That's  the  truth!  They  used  to  show  me  off  as  one 
of  their  handsomest.  But  I  got  tired  of  being  paid  in 
benevolence.  I  sided  in  with  the  girls  who  started  a 
strike  because  they  were  compelled  to  stand  on  their  feet 
all  day  for  less  than  a  living  wage,  and  lend  their  good 
looks  as  well  as  their  talents  to  luring  thousands  of 
women  to  squander  their  husband's  hard-earned  salaries." 

"Legalized  slavery,"  muttered  Bill. 

"I  became  a  leader,"  continued  Nell,  "I  appealed  to 
the  Press.  To  spoil  my  influence  with  the  other  girls  the 
store's  officials  slandered  me  as  an  immoral  person." 

"More  convenient  than  murder,"  interrupted  Bill. 

"Oh,  they'll  do  anything!  I  was  discharged.  That 
gave  the  Press  an  opportunity  for  a  nasty  story  about 
me.  But  I  worked  for  the  strike  on  the  outside.  Re- 


Unconventional  Joan  213 

porters  followed  me,  every  step  I  took.  I  was  interfering 
with  the  affairs  of  the  papers'  largest  benefactor.  I  was 
pursued  with  bitter  vindictiveness.  Because  of  the  in- 
famous story  circulated  about  me  they  had  me  down  and 
they  daily  trampled  upon  my  face,  my  personality,  my 
affairs,  my  supposed  opinions.  My  suspected  innermost 
thoughts  became  the  subject  of  discourse  and  speculation 
upon  the  front  pages  of  the  papers.  It  became  impossible 
for  me  to  procure  any  kind  of  employment.  So  what  was 
left  to  me?  Do  you  think  any  man  worth  having  would 
look  at  me  to  marry  me,  a  notorious  outcast?  Well, 
that's  what  I  became,  eventually !  And  look  at  me  now ! 
Look  at  the  pathos  of  it — the  tragedy  of  it — actually 
compelled  to  try  to  get  a  living  off  the  Press  that  ruined 
me!  If  that  isn't  hell,  I  can't  imagine  what  is.  Why 
shouldn't  I  be  with  you,  kid,  why  shouldn't  I  ?" 

The  reaction  from  the  drug,  and  her  agitated  emotions, 
produced  a  convulsion  of  weeping.  Bill  got  up,  crossed 
over  and  sat  beside  her,  and  pacified  her  by  putting  his 
arm  alongside  of  Joan's  round  her  waist. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  he  kept  repeating.  "But  we  can't 
stop  the  Press." 

"We  don't  want  to  stop  it.  It  is  invaluable.  It  should 
be  the  bulwark  of  civilization.  We  want  to  make  it  that. 
We  want  to  govern  its  vicious  influence — "  Joan  started 
to  say. 

"We  can't  govern  the  governor  of  government,"  tersely 
interrupted  Bill. 

"We  can  try,"  persisted  Joan. 

"They  will  turn  their  batteries  on  you  in  a  twinkling 
if  you  cross  them,"  warned  Bill.  His  words  reminded 
Joan  of  Tom's  similar  caution. 


214  Unconventional  Joan 

The  batteries  of  public  opinion  can  be  turned  against 
them,  too,"  responded  Joan. 

"How?"  eagerly  enquired  Bill  and  Nell  together. 

"By  the  'Army  of  the  Victims  of  the  Vicious  Press' !" 
was  the  firm,  unhesitating  reply. 

"And  who  will  lead  the  'Army'?"  derisively  enquired 
Bill,  grinning  broadly. 

"I  will,  and  you  and  Nell  shall  be  my  generals," 
decisively  replied  Joan. 

"But  the  batteries  ?"  blandly  queried  Nell. 

"Banners,"  answered  Joan,  "delivering  shots  that  will 
strike  home — 'News  not  Nuisance' — 'Lift  us  up,  Don't 
Drag  us  Down' — 'We  can  make  you  Bigger  if  you  will 
make  us  Stronger' — 'We  want  to  Love  you  instead  of 
Hating  you' — 'You  belong  to  us  as  much  as  we  belong  to 
you' — 'If  you  can't  see  what  is  smouldering  in  our  hearts 
you  are  doomed' — sugar-coated,  peaceful  protests,  like 
that ;  nothing  rebellious,  not  yet." 

"March  your  crazy  army  and  its  batteries  down  News- 
paper Row  and  stick  'em  up  in  front  of  the  Newspaper 
offices — that  can  be  done — but  you  can't  get  your  banners 
believed — that  is,  they  won't  make  any  impression  on  the 
Press—" 

"Bill,"  interrupted  Joan,  "listen  to  me.  You  are  a 
newspaper  man,  and  so  am  I,  and  we  both  know  this.  We 
can  take  a  space  on  the  front  page  of  tomorrow's  Record 
and  we  can  print  on  it  'Bill  is  our  Best  Citizen,'  or  some 
other  lie," — Bill  roared — "and  although  most  of  those 
who  read  that  will  smile  at  it,  some  will  believe  it,  and  if 
you  keep  putting  it  there  long  enough,  every  day,  every- 
body will  believe  that  you  are  our  'Best  Citizen,'  Bill, 
even  if  you  are  not."  Bill  roared  again.  "That  is  the 


Unconventional  Joan  215 

power  of  propaganda,  'getting  anything,  even  a  lie,  to  be 
believed.'  That's  the  power  of  the  Press;  that's  a  power 
which  the  masses  have  never  dared,  never  attempted,  to 
use,  I  agree  with  you  that  one  or  two  banners  might  not 
influence  a  vicious  newspaper;  but  a  hundred  or  two 
hundred  might,  carried  by  the  most  pitiable  of  all  the 
victims  of  the  Press — by  young  girls — by  ragged  newsies 
— tiny  little  banners  carried  by  infants  in  their  mother's 
arms,  pleading  for  a  clean  chance — scarlet  banners  car- 
ried by  women  branded  by  the  Press — banners  with  a 
cross  upon  them  carried  by  Christ's  disciples  struggling 
against  devil-made  convention — Oh!  Yes,  Bill,  it  can  be 
done." 

Bill  suspected  that  he  was  witnessing  a  most  prodigious 
kind  of  enthusiasm,  and  began  to  believe  that  possibly 
the  thing  could  be  done.  Nell  was  certain  of  it. 

"The  Army  of  the  Victims  of  the  Vicious  Press !" 
repeated  Joan. 

Bill  laughed. 

It  sounded  funny. 

Nell  frowned  at  him. 

Joan  repeated  it  again.  "The  Army  of  the  Victims  of 
the  Vicious  Press — that  includes  the  three  of  us  to  begin 
with,  doesn't  it?" 

Yes,  it  certainly  did ;  whether  they  admitted  it  or  not. 

"It  is  no  damn  laughing  matter,"  forcefully  assented 
Nell. 

The  three  enlisted. 

The  first  offensive  movement  was  scheduled  for  Thurs- 
day at  noon. 

Nell  was  commissioned  to  round  up  the  female  section 
of  the  procession  of  protest,  with  its  banners. 


216  Unconventional  Joan 

Bill  was  commissioned  to  recruit  the  men. 

Joan  undertook  to  enlist  the  newsboys. 

And  as  Nell  beheld  tough  old  Bill  striding  down  the 
alley,  betaking  himself  grimly  off  to  his  duty,  looking  as 
earnest  as  she  had  ever  seen  him  look,  and  muttering 
curses  against  the  Press  as  he  went,  she  caught  up  in  her 
arms  the  small  little  chap  who  had  softened  her  man  and 
kissed  the  little  fellow  on  the  lips. 

IV 

Joan  began  to  clean  up  the  alley's  morals  that  same 
Monday  night. 

Her  task  of  enlisting  the  "Newsies"  got  well  under 
way  within  the  hour.  Bill  came  back  shortly  and  walked 
tip  and  down  the  alley  with  her  several  times — he  a  great 
big  giant  of  intimidating  brawn,  she  a  frail  little  figure, 
red-cheeked  and  beautiful;  and  soon  the  newsboys  could 
be  heard  saying: 

"Here  comes  Bill  and  the  Kid." 

Joan  moved  about  among  the  boys  speaking  very 
decisively.  There  was  a  brighter  fire  than  ever  in  her 
eye,  and  a  remarkably  attractive  dignity  in  her  manner. 

She  gave  orders,  instead  of  asking  questions. 

"You  are  going  to  stop  that  swearing,"  she  said  to  a 
newsboy  whom  she  was  instructing  for  his  part  in  the 
Thursday  demonstration." 

"Why?    I  would  rather  go  to — " 

"Never  mind  where  you  would  rather  go.  You  are 
here  now  and  you  stop  using  that  kind  of  language." 

The  hot  desire  which  the  "Kid"  so  quickly  aroused  in 
the  newsboys  to  "hold  a  parade"  won  Bill's  admiration. 
Before  the  night  had  far  advanced  he  and  Joan  became 


Unconventional  Joan  217 

inseparable.  He  was  so  big,  she  so  little,  he  was  so  far 
on  in  years,  she  was  so  young;  he  was  so  rough  and 
brown,  she  was  so  fresh  and  childish;  he  was  such  an 
experienced  old  sinner,  she  was  unsullied  and  childlike. 

It  was  the  oddest  sort  of  an  alliance,  he  thought. 

He  told  her  so. 

"I  don't  know  just  what  makes  me  fall  so  hard  for  you 
and  your  scheme,  Kid." 

The  enchantress  who  lurks  in  every  woman  had  him  in 
thrall. 

Joan  was  learning  that  the  subtle  feminine  influence, 
even  when  hidden,  works  irresistibly.  She  replied: 

"Did  you  ever  hear  tell  of  Joan  of  Arc?" 

Bill  said  that  he  had. 

"Well,"  continued  Joan,  "if  a  mere  chit  of  a  girl  could 
wake  up  a  whole  nation  and  lead  it  to  victory,  don't  you 
think  a  big  strong  man  like  you  and  a  willing  little  chap 
like  me,  can  start  something  of  the  same  sort  in  this  city, 
against  a  worse  tyrant  than  hers?" 

Bill  said  he  thought  that  they  could,  and  asked  the 
"Kid"  where  he  lived.  There  was  not  a  very  prompt 
response  to  that,  so  Bill  tactfully  added: 

"There's  room  for  you  to  bunk  up  over  night  in  one 
of  the  news-trucks  in  the  alley,  if  you  like." 

Joan  thought  that  would  be  useful  experience  and 
safer  than  running  the  risk  of  being  seen  going  into  the 
loft,  and  acquiesced. 

Bill  watched  his  curious  waif  kneel  down  before 
cuddling  up. 

"A  bit  simple,  I  guess,"  he  observed.  His  face  sagged 
with  sympathy. 

"I  am  getting  my  army  lined  up,  Joan  of  Arc,"  the 


218  Unconventional  Joan 

"Kid"  prayerfully  reported,  and  then  quickly  fell  asleep. 


Several  hours  later,  at  about  two  o'clock  on  Tuesday 
morning,  as  Tom  Manly  entered  his  apartment  and 
stopped  before  his  dressing-table,  a  picture  of  Joan  on  it 
arrested  his  attention. 

He  had  treasured  the  photograph  ever  since  it  had  been 
taken  during  their  college  days. 

As  he  looked  at  it  the  lips  of  the  smiling  face  moved 
and  spoke  to  him: 

"News,  Mister,"  they  softly  pleaded. 

Tom  caught  his  breath. 

"I  knew  I  had  heard  that  voice  before;  that  newsie 
was  Joan." 

Quivering  with  excitement  he  reached  for  his  telephone 
and  called  up  Joan's  home.  A  sleepy  caretaker,  resentful 
of  being  aroused  at  such  an  hour  of  the  morning,  curtly 
informed  him  that  "Miss  Joan  didn't  live  there  any 
longer."  "Did  he  know  where  she  could  be  found?" 
"No,  she  had  gone  away  early  in  the  morning." 

Terrible  things! 

Too  late !  Too  late  to  save  her  from  terrible  things — 
maddening  things! 

"Joan,  Joan,"  he  moaned,  holding  her  picture  in  his 
hands.  "Brave  little  Joan.  I  have  the  courage  to  do  it 
now.  You  have  shown  me  how  to  do  it.  I  will  find  you, 
and  tell  you,  and  make  you  happy,  as  you  asked." 

He  waited,  sleepless,  for  the  daylight  to  find  her  and 
tell  her. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


'  I  VOM,  haggard  from  loss  of  sleep  and  worry  over 
•*•  Joan's  safety,  hurried  to  the  loft  on  Tuesday  morn- 
ing to  await  her  arrival.  He  calculated  that  she  had  no 
other  place  to  go.  Suspicions  of  her  destitution  oppressed 
him,  and  his  realization  of  her  pluck  shamed  him.  She 
was  not  there  when  he  arrived,  so  he  remained. 

At  eight  o'clock  Joan's  original  army  of  the  neighbour- 
hood's destitute  dogs  came  scampering  up  the  three  flights 
of  stairs,  quietly,  as  they  had  been  trained  to  do.  Only 
the  patter  of  their  feet  could  be  heard. 

Joan  was  coming !  Tom  waited  for  her  on  the  landing 
at  the  fourth  floor. 

As  the  dogs  reached  the  top  floor  they  stopped,  huddled 
in  a  group  for  a  moment. 

Who  was  this  intruder? 

They  sniffed  the  air.  This  was  not  Jerry.  They  did 
not  know  who  he  was.  Therefore  he  had  no  business 
there,  they  decided.  He  might  be  intending  to  hurt  Joan. 
So  they  would  get  him  out  of  the  way. 

A  medley  of  snarls  developed  instantly  into  a  hubbub 
of  barks,  interspersed  with  such  snapping  of  teeth  that 
Tom,  in  a  panic,  indiscreetly  took  refuge  on  top  of  the 
balustrade,  and  yelled: 

"Joan,  Joan,  call  off  your  hounds,  before  they  eat  me 
alive!" 

Tom's  precipitate  retreat,  of  course,  drew  the  dogs  on, 
and  it  began  to  look  doubtful  if  there  would  be  enough  of 
him  left  to  be  of  any  help  to  Joan  by  the  time  she  reached 
the  top  of  the  stairs. 

219 


22O  Unconventional  Joan 

Tom  could  hear  her  hurrying  up. 

What  a  fine  sight  for  her  he  would  be,  treed  on  his 
uncomfortable  and  dangerous  perch!  She  was  bringing 
someone  with  her — several  people. 

This  would  never  do.  The  editor  of  the  News  must 
not  be  caught  in  such  a  humiliating  situation. 

In  desperation,  he  jumped  off  into  the  midst  of  the 
dogs,  just  as  a  group  of  Record  newsboys,  who  had  been 
standing  downstairs  in  front  of  the  Record  building  next 
door,  attracted  by  the  terrific  barking  upstairs,  reached 
the  landing  on  the  fourth  floor,  and  discovered  the 
Record's  rival  at  bay,  outside  Joan's  door. 

What  a  fine  story  this  would  make  for  Keating,  Tom 
thought,  if  any  of  the  Record  newsboys  happened  to 
recognize  him ! 

The  dogs  beat  a  yelping  retreat,  and  left  the  situation 
to  terrified  Tom  and  the  grinning  boys. 

"Can't  you  git  in,  mister?"  laconically  enquired  the 
bully  who  had  sold  Tom  a  Record  last  night  and  after- 
wards smashed  Joan  on  the  eye. 

"I  don't  know  that  I'm  trying  'to  git  in',"  Tom  retorted 
evasively.  "Maybe  I'm  trying  'to  git  out'." 

He  walked  down  stairs  with  as  much  dignity  as  he 
could  muster,  strolled  up  the  street  a  short  distance  to 
throw  his  audience  off  his  track,  and  then  returning,  took 
up  a  position  on  the  pavement,  close  to  the  doorway  lead- 
ing up  to  the  loft,  and  waited  for  Joan. 

In  a  few  minutes  Joan  came  round  the  corner  from  the 
alley  behind  the  News  building,  on  her  way  to  feed  the 
dogs  and  do  a  little  doctoring  to  a  certain  black  eye.  She 
had  decided  to  risk  going  up  into  the  loft  unseen. 

Within  a  few  feet  of  him  she  spied  Tom  waiting  for 


Unconventional  Joan  221 

her,   and   darted    into   a    doorway,    her    heart-a-flutter. 

"Tom  is  looking  for  me.  He  ought  to  be  in  bed  now. 
How  pale  and  worn  he  looks !  He  expects  me  to  go  up 
into  the  loft.  He  will  pry  into  my  future  plans.  Deter- 
mined Tom!" 

She  could  have  made  him  hear  by  whispering — he  was 
so  close. 

"What  would  he  think  if  he  knew  I  was  selling  his 
papers?  How  would  he  feel  about  me  being  dressed  like 
this?  How  would  he  like  my  black  eye?  What  would 
he  think  about  the  'Army  of  the  Victims  of  the  Vicious 
Press'  ?  He  would  try  to  disband  it.  I  must  keep  out  of 
his  way." 

As  she  looked  in  Tom's  direction  she  saw  the  Record 
bully,  who  had  hit  her,  come  out  of  the  Record  building. 
She  winced  at  sight  of  him  and  drew  farther  back  into 
the  doorway.  Joan  thought  he  had  a  very  suspicious  grin 
on  his  face.  She  watched  him  take  up  a  stand  near  the 
doorway  to  the  loft,  not  far  from  Tom,  where  he  kept  a 
sly  watch  on  Tom  and  on  the  loft  entrance. 

Her  heart  almost  ceased  beating. 

Could  it  be  possible  that  he  had  discovered  her  identity 
and  was  waiting  there  to  finish  his  defeat  of  her?  She 
felt  like  running. 

Could  Keating  have  penetrated  her  disguise  and  put 
the  fellow  on  her  trail  ?  Was  he  going  to  watch  for  her 
all  day  and  spoil  her  plans? 

Or  was  the  Record  boy  watching  Tom,  to  find  out  what 
he  was  doing  there? 

Perhaps  her  imagination  was  needlessly  alarming  her. 

She  did  not  know  what  to  think,  but  she  did  know 
that  she  was  not  safe  where  she  was,  so  she  slipped  in 


222  Unconventional  Joan 

front  of  a  pedestrian  for  a  shield  and  went  back  to  the 
alley  with  Bill,  where  she  felt  more  secure. 

ii 

Joan  did  not  see  the  Record  newsboy  again  all  day. 
She  kept  to  the  alley  for  safety's  sake,  but  began  to  cul- 
tivate a  healthy  determination  to  kick  the  bully's  shins 
full  of  holes  if  he  crossed  her  path.  This  determination 
actually  grew  into  a  desire  as  the  day  wore  on,  and  she 
planned  to  sally  forth  at  dark  and  take  her  chances  with 
him  if  she  encountered  him. 

But  although  she  did  not  see  the  Record  bully  she  did 
see  Tom.  He  came  out  of  the  alley-entrance  to  the  News 
building  into  the  alley  itself,  and  walked  out  through  it 
into  the  street.  She  did  not  suspect  that  he  could  be  look- 
ing for  her  there.  But  still  it  seemed  strange  that  he 
should  be  in  the  News  building  during  the  day,  because 
he  regularly  spent  the  night  there,  from  six  o'clock  on. 

"That's  the  editor  of  the  News,"  Bill  confided  to  her. 

"Is  that  so?"  replied  Joan,  "He  is  a  very  nice-looking 
man.  It's  too  bad  we  must  fight  him."  She  did  not  think 
it  prudent  to  explain  her  lesser  antagonism  to  Tom's 
paper. 

"He's  looking  for  one  of  the  newsboys,"  Bill  informed 
her. 

Joan  trembled.    How  had  he  found  out  ? 

"Must  be  a  new  one.  I  know  'em  all.  Your  name 
isn't  John,  is  it?"  Bill  surveyed  her  intently. 

In  desperation,  Joan  denied  that  it  was,  and  wondered 
how  she  could  possibly  elude  Tom  if  he  was  determined 
to  keep  on  her  trail. 

"Well,  if  you  hear  any  of  these  kids  calling  somebody 


Unconventional  Joan  223 

'John,'  send  him  up  the  alley  entrance  to  the  boss.    He's 
got  something  coming  to  him,  I  reckon." 

"All  right,  I'll  send  him  up,  Bill,  she  said  aloud,  and  to 
herself  added,  "I'll  send  myself  up  by  the  front  entrance, 
at  noon  the  day  after  tomorrow,  in  broad  daylight,  at  the 
head  of  my  army,  and,  I  don't  like  to  do  it,  but  he's  one 
of  those  who  will  unexpectedly  have  something  coming 
to  him." 

in 

Joan  kept  making  little  speeches  of  confidence  to  her- 
self all  day  long,  and  grew  braver  and  braver  in  her  at- 
titude towards  the  Record  bully  and  Tom.  She  was  sure 
she  would  be  defiant  towards  either  of  them  should  she 
meet  them — after  dark.  But  she  kept  to  the  alley  during 
the  day,  rounding  up  her  cohorts,  and  receiving  reports 
from  her  generals. 

"It's  going  to  be  the  most  spectacular  parade  this  city 
has  ever  seen,"  Nell,  informed  her  at  five  o'clock.  "I've 
made  the  rounds  of  the  department  stores,  seen  my 
friends,  put  them  quietly  to  work  on  the  banners,  and 
there'll  be  enough  for  everybody.  It's  a  great  idea  to  hold 
it  at  noon  hour,  when  enough  people  are  off  work  to  take 
part  in  it  and  see  it.  And  it's  great  that  we're  doing  it 
quick.  They  won't  have  time  to  stop  us.  They'll  hardly 
have  time  to  find  out  what  we  are  going  to  do.  We  are 
practically  ready  now.  All  that's  necessary  is  for  you  to 
take  your  place  at  the  head  of  the  line  and  give  the  order 
to  march." 

Joan  thanked  God  for  sending  her  such  an  organizer 
as  Nell,  with  the  experience  and  bitterness  of  past  strike- 
failures  to  guide  her. 


224  Unconventional  Joan 

IV 

"Bill,"  said  Joan  to  her  stalwart  aide-de-camp,  towards 
dusk  on  Tuesday,  "I  have  some  special  friends  whom  I 
have  been  thinking  about  in  connection  with  our  parade 
the  day  after  tomorrow,  and  I  should  like  to  have  your 
advice  about  letting  them  take  part." 

"The  more  the  merrier,  Kid,"  replied  Bill. 

"They  are  a  lot  of  dogs,"  Joan  informed  him. 

"Dogs?" 

"Yes,  I  raised  and  maintained  a  regular  army  of  dogs 
before  I  ever  thought  of  raising  the  'Army  of  the  Victims 
of  the  Vicious  Press'." 

Bill  meditatively  scratched  his  head  and  observed  to 
himself:  "Another  army — of  dogs?  The  Kid's  dippy 
on  armies."  But  he  must  humour  her.  Aloud  he  replied, 
"Dogs  can't  carry  any  banners." 

"Well,  I  expect  trouble,  Bill,  from  one  particular  man. 
He  is  a  very  determined  man.  He  always  gets  what  he 
wants.  I  expect  him  to  make  a  rush  for  me  and  grab  me 
away  from  my  place  at  the  head  of  the  procession.  But 
I  have  an  idea  that  if  he  sees  my  dogs  around  me  he  will 
think  twice  before  he  tries  to  get  past  them." 

"Fetch  'em  along,"  said  Bill.  "But  had  you  forgotten 
that  he  will  have  to  get  past  me?" 

"Good  old  Bill,"  responded  Joan.  "You'll  like  my 
dogs,  and  I  know  they'll  like  you." 

"All  right,"  said  Bill,  "but  I  don't  want  to  go  in  any 
circus  parade  with  a  lot  of  wild  animals.  This  is  a 
damned  serious  demonstration,  and  I  am  more  deter- 
mined that  it  shall  succeed  than  your  kind  friend  can 
possibly  be  to  have  it  fail.  I'll  take  particular  delight 
in  slaughtering  him  if  he  is  a  newspaper  man." 


Unconventional  Joan  225 

"Very  well,  Bill,  I  won't  bring  the  dogs,"  Joan 
hastened  to  conciliate  him. 

"Suit  yourself,  Kid,  don't  mind  me,"  he  answered,  "but 
their  being  there  to  keep  that  fellow  off  will  deprive  me 
of  the  opportunity  of  making  mincemeat  out  of  him." 

"On  second  thought,  Bill,  I  believe  I  will  bring  the 
dogs,"  she  said,  remembering  Bill's  envy  of  Tom  for 
holding  what  might  have  been  his  position,  and  realizing, 
with  a  surprising  degree  of  solicitude,  that  she  could 
never  bear  to  have  Tom  harmed. 


Tom  left  the  News  building  in  time  to  buy  the  papers 
at  the  corner  shortly  before  six  o'clock,  in  order  to  avoid 
encountering  Keating.  He  calculated  that  Joan  would  be 
selling  papers  there  again. 

Joan  did  not  appear. 

The  Record  bully  sold  him  a  paper. 

"Didn't  you  sell  me  a  paper  here  at  about  this  time 
yesterday?"  Tom  asked  him. 

"Yep." 

"Do  you  remember  what  became  of  the  lad  who  sold 
me  a  copy  of  the  News  at  the  same  time  ?"  enquired  Tom. 

"Yep,  I  punched  him  in  the  eye." 

"What?"  Tom  wanted  to  take  the  bully  by  the  neck, 
and  with  the  greatest  difficulty  restrained  himself. 

"He  can't  sell  his  trashy  paper  on  my  corner." 

Trashy ! 

So  he  edited  trash! 

Well,  perhaps  the  same  newsboy  wouldn't  sell  his 
"trash"  there  on  the  corner  any  more,  but  some  other  boy 
would.  Tom  promised  himself  to  see  to  that. 


226  Unconventional  Joan 

"Do  you  know  where  he  is?"  Tom  enquired,  expecting 
to  be  referred  to  some  hospital. 

"I  ain't  seen  him  today." 

"If  you  see  him  again,  I'd  like  you  to  let  me  know 
where  he's  selling  papers  now,  since  leaving  your  corner. 
You  may  see  him  yet,  to-night.  I'll  drop  back  here  in  an 
hour  to  see  you."  Tom  did  not  want  the  "newsie"  to 
find  out  who  he  was  by  reporting  to  him  up  in  his  office. 
He  gave  him  an  extra  coin. 

When  Tom  had  gone,  the  Record  bully  went  across 
the  street,  entered  the  Record  office,  went  upstairs  and 
remained  ten  minutes  or  so  before  returning  to  the  street. 
In  an  hour,  Tom  approached  him  on  the  corner. 

"Ain't  seen  him  yet,"  reported  the  Record  newsboy. 

"I'll  be  back  again  in  an  hour,"  said  Tom,  persistent  in 
his  efforts  to  find  Joan,  who  was  just  then  contemplating 
leaving  the  alley,  under  cover  of  the  darkness. 

Tom  returned  every  hour  until  after  midnight,  without 
success. 

Soon  he  would  have  to  go  home  and  get  some  sleep. 
His  work  for  the  night  would  shortly  be  over.  He  could 
do  nothing  more  to  find  her  until  morning.  He  wrote  a 
hurried  note  to  her,  gave  it  to  the  Record  newsboy,  and 
asked  him  to  give  it  to  the  "other  newsie"  as  soon  as  he 
saw  him  in  the  morning.  Then  he  returned  to  finish 
his  work  in  the  News  office  and  go  home. 

As  soon  as  Tom  had  disappeared  into  the  News  build- 
ing the  Record  newsboy  took  Tom's  note  over  to  the 
Record  building  and  went  upstairs  with  it. 

VI 

Although  Joan  came  out  of  the  alley  and  watched  Tom 


Unconventional  Joan  227 

leave  for  his  home  before  deciding  to  "bunk  up"  again  in 
the  truck,  Tom  went  wearily  home  without  seeing  her. 

It  was  after  he  had  left  the  Record  newsboy  for  the 
last  time  and  had  gone  back  to  his  office  to  finish  his  work, 
that  Joan  came  out  of  the  alley,  still  thinking  solicitously 
about  the  chances  of  Bill  injuring  Tom  during  the  Thurs- 
day demonstration. 

Within  less  than  an  hour  after  she  left  the  alley,  Joan 
learned  how  far  solicitude  about  a  man  may  lead. 

Her  last  great  battle  between  her  instinct  and  her  feel- 
ings was  fought  on  the  kerb  directly  facing  Tom  Manly 's 
office,  in  the  early  hours  of  the  day  preceding  her  demon- 
stration against  the  press.  Thinking  of  Tom,  she  walked 
directly  to  a  point  opposite  the  News  Building,  where  she 
deliberately  sat  down  in  the  darkness  and  gazed  up  at  the 
brilliantly  illuminated  windows  where  Tom  and  his  staff 
were  finishing  the  morning  edition. 

Up  there  was  her  old  class-mate,  a  successful  man  of 
the  world.  With  him  she  had  been  trained  to  go  through 
life  on  a  plane  level  with  his  own.  There  he  was,  on  top, 
wanting  her ;  here  she  was,  at  the  bottom,  literally  in  the 
gutter,  fighting  him. 

And  yet  her  pity  was  for  him,  not  for  herself. 

"I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,  Tom,"  she  spoke  upwards 
at  the  window  to  him.  "But  I  must  go  through  with  this, 
even  if  it  does  hurt  you/' 

Newspaper  Row  was  very  quiet.  The  city  was  sound 
asleep.  Joan  had  never  before  been  out  so  late.  It  seemed 
very  peaceful.  She  thought  of  the  calm  before  the  storm. 
Only  one  straggling  pedestrian  slouched  along  behind  her 
during  the  time  she  sat  there,  and  even  the  drivers  of  the 
waiting  delivery  trucks  were  asleep  on  the  seats ;  but  up- 


228  Unconventional  Joan 

stairs  in  both  newspaper  offices  the  city's  rulers  were  wide 
awake. 

"Less  than  thirty-six  hours  left  in  your  reign,"  Joan 
reflected,  as  she  visualized  the  procession  of  protest  which 
she  would  lead  into  Newspaper  Row  on  Thursday  at 
noon. 

Bill  by  her  side,  and  her  dogs  on  leashes ! 

Then  the  newsboys,  her  own  picked  company ! 

After  them  Nell's  brigade  of  the  city's  persecuted  girls ! 

And  at  the  end  Bill's  group  of  men,  about  which  he  had 
maintained  an  ominous  secrecy! 

Silently,  at  the  stroke  of  twelve,  the  procession  would 
move  into  Newspaper  Row,  with  its  banners,  and  quietly 
take  up  its  position  in  front  of  the  Record  office. 

Bill  had  significantly  told  her  to  "Watch  the  finish !" 

She  had  gladly  left  Bill  to  his  own  discretion,  up  to  the 
point  of  his  possible  attack  upon  Tom.  But  she  felt  she 
could  not  trust  him  to  restrain  himself  when  he  learned 
that  her  opponent  was  the  editor  of  the  News.  Tom 
would  certainly  be  there.  The  newspapers  could  not  be 
expected  to  be  ignorant  of  the  protest  up  to  the  last 
minute.  It  occurred  to  her  to  protect  Tom  by  going  right 
up  to  him,  now,  and  warning  him  to  take  precautions. 

She  stood  up  to  go. 

The  reporters  would  see  her  if  she  went  up,  and  they 
might  accomplish  some  interference  with  her  plans ! 

She  decided  to  stop  Tom  in  the  darkness,  when  he  left 
the  building  to  go  home.  She  would  save  him  if  she 
could,  little  appreciating  what  she  was  about  to  precipitate 
upon  him. 

She  sat  down  and  kept  thinking  about  him,  while  wait- 
ing for  him  to  leave  the  building. 


Unconventional  Joan  229 

"I  have  been  dodging  you  all  day,  Tom,  and  no\v  I  am 
waiting  to  see  you,"  she  said  to  herself.  "You  have  been 
looking  for  me  to  protect  me;  now  I  am  looking  for 
you  to  protect  you.  We  have  been  dodging  each  other 
this  way  a  good  part  of  our  lives,  haven't  we?" 

She  began  to  speculate  upon  how  other  women  would 
have  changed  Tom's  policy  by  marrying  him  first  and  in- 
fluencing him  gradually.  That  would  be  their  tactful 
solution  of  the  problem.  Incidentally,  it  would  take  care 
of  the  matter  of  their  sustenance,  and  would  bring  them 
happiness.  It  would,  indeed,  make  them  very  happy,  pro- 
vided they  successfully  swayed  him. 

She  looked  at  her  apparel,  appraised  her  few  assets, 
thought  of  her  absolute  loneliness  in  the  world,  calculated 
the  possibility  of  the  failure  of  her  demonstration,  and 
decided  that  ninety-nine  women  out  of  one  hundred  would 
marry  Tom  under  the  circumstances. 

"And  I  am  so  strange  that  I  could  never  marry  him.  I 
like  him.  I  want  to  help  him.  I  would  not  for  the  world 
have  him  harmed — much  less  bring  harm  to  him ;  but  love 
him — marry  him — never — " 

At  this  moment  Tom  appeared  in  the  doorway  on  his 
way  home. 

"Providential,"  she  murmured. 

She  stood  up  again. 

Bill  and  Nell  called  to  her  from  behind.  A  group  of 
newsboys  got  in  her  way.  Hundreds  of  dejected  girls 
and  women  and  men  pleaded  against  her  going,  with  their 
sorrowful  eyes. 

"I  cannot  have  him  harmed,"  she  remonstrated.  "I 
must  warn  him.  Bill  will  kill  him." 

"You  are  capitulating  to  convention  in  the  very  hour  of 


230  Unconventional  Joan 

your  triumph  over  it,"  rebuked  a  feeble  little  voice  inside. 
"You  have  yielded  so  far  that  only  a  miracle  of  courage 
can  save  you  now." 

Tom  passed  up  the  street,  wearily  trudging  along.  She 
could  see  that  he  was  very  tired.  Helplessly  she  watched 
him  and  let  him  go. 

Then  she  sat  down,  in  an  agony  of  doubt  and  inde- 
cision. 

"What  have  I  done?"  she  muttered.  "What  am  I  do- 
ing, most  of  the  time — I  don't  seem  to  know — " 

Behind  her,  the  Record  bully  who  had  given  her  her 
black  eye  came  out  of  the  Record  building,  walked  quickly 
to  where  she  was  sitting,  handed  her  Tom's  note  and  dis- 
appeared. 

Joan  opened  the  folded  sheet  of  paper  and  read: 

"J.  will  you  please  see  me  immediately?" 

She  had  told  him  "to  let  her  know" ! 

Was  he  letting  her  know  ?  Was  he  going  to  save  him- 
self, as  she  had  begged  him  to  do?  Was  he  wanting  to 
help  her  with  her  demonstration  against  the  vicious 
Press? 

Question  upon  question  pressed  for  answer. 

She  had  never  before  in  her  life  received  a  note  from 
Tom  Manly. 

It  came  to  her  at  the  weakest  and  most  hazardous  mo- 
ment of  her  life — came  to  her  tottering  on  the  verge  of 
madness — came  to  her  feeling  her  need  of  a  protector. 

She  had  risen  to  her  feet  after  reading  it,  and  stood 
staring  in  the  direction  taken  by  Tom.  It  occurred  to  her 
that  she  might  be  able  to  overtake  him. 

In  a  moment  she  was  hurrying  after  him  in  the  dark. 

At  the  corner  her  haste  almost  cost  her  her  life.     One 


Unconventional  Joan  231 

of  the  big  newspaper  trucks  rolled  noiselessly  out  of  the 
alley  behind  the  Record  building,  without  any  lights,  and 
almost  ran  her  down  in  the  dark.  The  narrow  escape 
took  away  her  breath,  and  made  her  lose  her  chance  of 
overtaking  Tom.  When  she  had  composed  herself,  she 
hurried  along  as  fast  as  her  feet  could  carry  her,  but  she 
was  nearly  a  whole  block  behind  him  when  he  turned  from 
the  street  to  enter  his  apartment. 

When  Joan  arrived  there  a  few  moments  later  he  had 
disappeared  within. 

It  was  two  o'clock  on  Wednesday  morning. 

She  stood  looking  at  the  closed  door. 

Two  men  were  coming  down  the  street,  approaching 
her. 

They  could  attack  or  overtake  her,  within  a  block,  if 
they  desired. 

It  was  a  long  way  back  to  Bill  and  the  truck  in  the 
alley. 

Could  she  trust  her  disguise  to  protect  her  from  the 
men? 

She  had  trusted  it  in  broad  daylight. 

But  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  beset  with  many  fears, 
Tom's  hallway  seemed  to  offer  greater  security. 

As  the  men  drew  closer  to  her  she  ran  up  the  steps  and 
took  refuge  in  the  vestibule. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
i 

TJEERING  through  the  glass  door,  waiting  for  the  two 

men  to  pass,  Joan  in  terror  watched  them  turn  from 
the  pavement  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  and  start  to  walk  up 
after  her.  In  the  darkness  she  seemed  to  see  that  one  of 
them  carried  a  dark  object  in  his  hands,  and  the  other 
appeared  to  have  a  short  stick  raised  up  above  his  head,  as 
if  ready  to  strike  a  blow. 

In  consternation,  Joan  pressed  the  bell-button  and 
rattled  the  door,  which  was  instantly  opened  by  Tom  in 
his  bath-robe,  just  as  the  two  men  reached  the  outside 
vestibule  door. 

"Joan!"  Tom  cried  pityingly,  touched  to  the  depths  of 
his  heart  by  the  spectacle  of  her  standing  there  in  the 
gloom,  drooping,  tattered,  come  to  him  at  last.  Over- 
whelmed with  emotion,  he  reached  out  towards  her. 

"Tom!"  she  cried,  and  rushed  for  protection  through 
the  open  door  into  his  arms. 

There  was  a  flash,  and  a  loud  report! 

Joan  trembled.    Was  she  being  shot? 

She  turned  in  Tom's  arms  to  look  at  the  two  men — 
one  with  the  short  uplifted  stick,  the  other  with  the  dark 
object  held  in  front  of  him.  As  she  turned,  there  came 
again  the  blinding  flash  right  in  her  startled  eyes,  and  an- 
other muffled  report. 

Tom  switched  on  the  light. 

Worse  than  being  shot !  Infinitely  more  diabolical  than 
murder ! 

There  in  the  open  doorway  stood  Keating's  photo- 
grapher, camera  in  hand,  Keating  himself  still  holding 

232 


Unconventional  Joan  233 

the  flash-light  stick  aloft,  behind  them  the  young  Record 
bully  coming  up  the  steps,  and  just  rolling  up  at  the  kerb 
the  big  Record  truck  that  had  barely  missed  running  over 
Joan. 

And  on  the  camera  plates,  two  convicting  photographs ! 

One  depicting  the  illustrious  editor  of  the  News,  in  his 
bathrobe,  embracing  a  young  woman  in  newsboy's  attire 
in  his  room  at  night,  with  all  the  emotion  of  which  his 
heart  was  capable  showing  on  his  face! 

The  other  picture  revealing  both  of  them  startled  and 
chagrined  at  being  discovered. 

Freedom  of  the  Press! 

ii 

When  Joan  had  sold  Keating  a  newspaper  on  Monday 
evening,  his  inscrutable  eyes  had  concealed  two  things, 
his  recognition  of  Joan  and  his  observation  that  Tom 
Manly  gave  no  outward  evidence  of  recognition  of  her. 

He  had  come  upon  some  kind  of  newspaper  plot ! 

Tom  Manly  and  Joan  were  unitedly  up  to  something 
that  could  not  be  expected  to  do  the  Record  any  good,  he 
suspected. 

From  that  moment  Joan's  movements  were  followed. 

The  "Army  of  the  Victims  of  the  Vicious  Press"  had 
hardly  been  projected  before  the  fact  was  known  in  the 
Record  office.  The  demonstration  engineered  by  Joan 
dressed  up  as  a  newsboy,  presumably  with  the  knowledge 
of  the  editor  of  the  News,  was  obviously  aimed  at  the 
Record.  The  Record  would  watch  developments  and 
handle  the  situation  in  its  own  typical  way. 

When  the  Record  bully  reported  to  the  Record  office 
on  Tuesday  morning  that  the  editor  of  the  News  had  been 


234  Unconventional  Joan 

treed  on  a  balustrade  by  a  lot  of  dogs,  on  the  fourth  floor 
of  the  loft  building  next  door,  he  never  suspected  that 
Manly  was  waiting  for  the  newsboy  whose  eye  he  himself 
had  blackened;  but  the  day-editor  of  the  Record  noted 
another  link  in  his  chain  of  evidence,  and  directed  the 
Record  newsboy  to  take  up  his  position  downstairs,  out- 
side the  loft  building,  to  watch  the  movements-  of  the 
editor  of  the  News  and  report  them  as  they  occurred. 
His  satellite  obediently  tracked  his  quarry  throughout  the 
day. 

When  the  editor  of  the  News  paid  the  Record  bully  to 
find  the  newsboy  whose  eye  he  had  blacked,  that  request 
was  revengefully  reported  to  the  office  of  the  Record. 

When  Tom's  note  was  entrusted  for  delivery  to  Joan, 
it  was  first  of  all  taken  up  to  Keating,  where  its  contents 
strengthened  the  evidence  of  the  suspected  plot  and  sup- 
gested  the  method  of  neutralizing  it. 

Keating  shrewdly  calculated  that  Joan  would  go  to 
Tom  upon  receipt  of  the  note.  But  instead  of  having  her 
go  to  him  in  his  office,  it  was  necessary  for  his  purpose 
that  she  should  be  induced  to  go  to  him  at  his  home.  The 
Record  bully  reported  that  she  was  in  the  alley  behind  the 
News  building.  Keating  watched  out  of  the  window  for 
Tom  Manly  to  start  home  before  he  had  the  note  de- 
livered to  Joan  in  the  alley.  Then  Joan  helped  his  plan 
by  coming  out  of  the  alley,  shortly  before  Tom  left,  and 
taking  up  her  position  on  the  kerb.  When  she  was  gaz- 
ing after  Tom,  Keating  tempted  her,  with  Tom's  note,  to 
follow  him.  When  she  started  after  Tom,  Keating  drove 
out  of  the  alley  behind  the  Record  building  with  his  pho- 
tographer and  the  Record  newsboy,  in  the  truck  that  al- 
most ran  over  Joan  at  the  corner,  and  in  a  roundabout 


Unconventional  Joan  235 

way  proceeded  one  block  beyond  Tom's  apartment,  where 
Keating  and  his  photographer  left  the  truck,  planning  to 
effect  an  entrance  to  Tom's  apartment  while  Joan  was 
with  him,  walked  down  the  avenue  towards  Joan  standing 
alone  at  two  a.  m.,  in  front  of  Tom's  door,  unexpectedly 
scared  her  into  his  vestibule,  pursued  and  crowded  her 
into  his  presence,  snapped  the  incriminating  photographs, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  grinning  over  their  accomplish- 
ment and  enjoying  the  discomforture  of  their  victims, 
before  rushing  the  waiting  truck  back  to  the  Record 
office  with  a  choice  bit  of  delightfully  scandalous  material 
for  the  morning  edition,  which  was  being  held  to  receive 
it. 

"This,"  chuckled  Keating  to  himself,  "supplies  the 
second  exposure  in  the  morning  edition  that  will  interest 
the  people  of  this  city." 

in 

Keating's  mouth  was  twisted  in  a  derisive  smile. 

"Quite  an  edifying  scene,"  he  sneered,  gloating  over 
his  conquest.  "How  shall  we  head  it?  'At  Home  with 
Editor  Manly's  Lady  Newsboy',  might  do." 

Tom  quivered  under  the  murderous  impulse  surging 
within  him. 

"Gawd!  Is  the  Kid  a  girl?"  ejaculated  the  Record 
bully.  Such  sweet  revenge ! 

Joan  had  a  mental  vision  of  the  effect  of  the  rowdy's 
information  when  conveyed  with  boorish  raillery  to  the 
newsboys  in  the  alley.  It  would  mean  the  end  of  tomor- 
row's demonstration.  She  had  been  counting  on  the  pub- 
lic protest  to  bear  more  heavily  upon  the  Record  than 
upon  the  News.  She  was  now  determined  that  it  should. 


236  Unconventional  Joan 

Keating's  intrusion  was  welding  her  to  Tom.  She  was 
holding  his  trembling  hand  and  pressed  it,  to  comfort  and 
calm  him.  It  had  not  dawned  upon  her  that  Keating  was 
going  to  print  the  picture  of  herself  and  Tom.  Soon 
enough  he  enlightened  her. 

"Manly,"  he  sneered,  "I  know  all  about  the  plot  against 
the  Record  concocted  by  you  and  your  lady  friend  here — " 

"He  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  plans,"  interrupted 
Joan  in  defence  of  him. 

Keating  ignored  her. 

"I  am  not  particularly  anxious  to  publish  this  exposure 
of  you  and  your  private  life  in  our  paper  this  morning.  I 
would  rather  hold  it  over  you,  to  use  at  some  future  date 
if  you  again  forget  that  it  is  not  good  newspaper  business 
to  start  an  attack  upon  your  competitor.  It  will  come  in 
handy.  I  prefer,  for  the  present,  to  hold  up  publication 
of  this  material  while  you  call  off  your  demonstration 
against  the  Record  scheduled  for  tomorrow." 

"He  has  no  part  in  my  demonstration,  I  tell  you,"  Joan 
protested. 

"Oh,  of  course  not,"  sneered  Keating.  "It  is  quite 
likely  isn't  it,  that  you  should  be  carrying  on  a  love  in- 
trigue with  the  editor  of  the  News  and  not  have  his  sup- 
port?" 

Tom's  restraint  was  giving  way.  The  need  to  kill  was 
strong  within  him.  Joan  saw  murder  gleaming  in  his 
eyes.  Weakly  realizing  that  she  must  try  to  stave  off  the 
catastrophe,  she  moved  almost  in  front  of  him. 

"What  is  your  proposal?"  she  demanded  of  Keating. 

"You  will  sign  this  to  be  sent  to  your  partners  in  the 
alley,"  coldly  replied  Keating,  handing  her  a  prepared 
statement  and  a  pen. 


Unconventional  Joan  237 

Joan  read  one  copy  and  put  the  other  into  Tom's 
twitching  fingers. 

"Bill:  Call  off  the  Protest.    I  shall  not  be  back." 

Joan  paled,  steadied  herself,  and  looked  into  Tom's 
murderous  eyes. 

If  she  did  not  send  this  to  the  alley  Keating  would 
print  the  photographs.  Tom  would  intercept  him  before 
he  moved;  but  nothing,  not  even  the  murder  of  Keating 
could  save  them  from  ruin  by  the  Record's  exposures. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  she  did  send  it,  the  protest  was 
impossible;  the  Record  would  hold  the  whip-hand  over 
Tom  and  the  News,  and  her  life's  fight  against  the  dy- 
nasty of  convention  was  at  an  end. 

No  matter  what  she  did,  she  had  brought  disgrace  to 
Tom,  whose  advice  she  had  never  heeded,  and  she  had 
added  a  final  failure  to  her  dismal  record  of  defeat. 

Convention  and  the  Record  had  won. 

Mercilessly  accussing  thoughts  of  self-reproach  ob- 
sessed her. 

Terrifying  hallucinations  of  Tom's  voice  scolding  her: 
"I  told  you  so." 

Haunting  echoes  of  Jerry's  cry  of  despair:  "What 
more  could  I  do?" 

Bitter  realization  of  the  hopelessness  of  opposition  to 
the  vicious  Press! 

Tragic  consequences  of  her  woman's  effort  to  do  the 
work  of  a  man ! 

Humiliating  memories  of  her  argument  with  the  Rec- 
tor: "Be  and  remain  true  to  that  which  it  is  a  good 
woman's  stupendous  privilege  to  be — a  woman ....  A 
woman  functions  normally  and  best  by  influence,  rather 
than  by  direct  action." 


238  Unconventional  Joan 

Crushing  reproach  of  her  refusal  to  influence  and  vvcrk 
through  Tom! 

Appalling  intimations  of  the  fulfilment  of  the  Rector's 
prediction:  "Th-e  penalty  for  oddness  is  dementia." 

Horrorstricken,  in  the  depths  of  despair,  she  signed 
her  disastrous  abdication  with  her  alley  name  of  "Kid." 

"Take  this  to  Bill  in  the  alley,"  Keating  instructed  the 
Record  rowdy,  handing  him  Joan's  surrender. 

To  the  photographer  he  said: 

"Tell  the  night  editor  to  hold  up  this  story,  but  to  run 
the  other  story,  as  planned." 

Joan  dimly  wondered,  "what  other  story?" 

Tom  still  stared  at  Keating  with  a  wild  fury  in  his 
eyes. 

As  the  photographer  and  newsboy  turned  to  the  wait- 
ing truck,  Keating,  looking  into  Tom's  menacing  face, 
called  to  them: 

"If  I  am  not  back  at  the  office  in  half  an  hour  print  both 
stories.  Before  I  return  I  have  some  things  to  say  to  Mr. 
Manly  which  I  think  his  companion  will  be  interested  to 
hear." 

Keating  viciously  surveyed  his  victim. 

Manly 's  eyes  were  no  more  menacing  than  his. 

Keating  was  plainly  unafraid. 

His  attitude  was  that  of  the  man  conserving  his  power ; 
withholding  his  ammunition. 

Joan  tottered  between  the  two  antagonists  in  momen- 
tary peril  of  collapse,  wanting  to  protect  and  fight  for 
Tom,  fearful  of  intensifying  Keating's  vengeance. 

As  a  deliberate  act  of  seeming  caution,  rather  than  fear, 
Keating  left  the  front  door  wide  open  behind  him.  Barely 
the  length  of  their  arms  separated  the  two  men.  They 


Unconventional  Joan  239 

could  wildly  reach  each  other's  throats   in  an   instant. 

Through  the  open  door  the  night's  chill  air  blew  idly 
in,  unable  to  cool  the  fires  of  hate  that  burned  in  their 
hearts.  Outside,  and  beyond,  on  all  sides,  their  subjects 
lay  peacefully  sleeping,  while  the  masters  of  their 
thoughts,  controllers  of  their  conduct,  custodians  of  their 
welfare,  temporal  and  even  eternal,  savagely  faced  each 
other  with  the  venom  and  fury  of  wild  beasts. 

"Thus,"  had  written  poor  Larry,  "newspapers  quarrel, 
grinding  down  innocent  men  and  women  in  their  com- 
plicated assaults  upon  one  another;  while  the  public  ig- 
norant of  the  motives  behind  their  warfare,  passively  tol- 
erates their  savagery  and  eventually  imitates  it. 

Civilization ! 


CHAPTER  XV 


look  as  if  you  wanted  to  kill  me,"  sneered 
Keating. 

His  insolence  was  maddening. 

"You  haven't  it  in  you  to  do  it,"  he  continued  taunt- 
ingly. 

Was  the  man  inviting  annihilation? 

Manly  uttered  no  word.    Joan  tightly  held  his  hand. 

Was  Keating  calculating  that  Manly  was  too  shrewd 
to  kill  him? 

Was  Manly  plotting  a  more  potent  retaliation  than 
murder  ? 

"You  deceive  yourself,  and  her,  that  it  is  her  humilia- 
tion which  angers  you." 

"Let  him  rave,"  Joan  whispered. 

Keating  heard  her,  and  said : 

"Don't  be  so  solicitous  about  him.  He  hasn't  been  about 
you." 

Joan  felt  the  shackles  of  the  bondage  of  imbecility 
tightening  around  her. 

"I  don't  mind  telling  you,  Manly,  that  your  wild  eyes 
don't  scare  me  a  bit,"  Keating  continued.  "I  am  not 
afraid  of  a  traitor  like  you,  and  I  am  not  afraid  to  tell 
you  that  I  am  here  to-night  to  fight  you  and  your  paper 
out  of  existence.  This  woman  who  thinks  she  holds  you 
from  harming  me  is  going  to  loathe  you  in  the  next  ten 
minutes.  I  am  going  to  drive  a  knife  so  sharply  between 
the  pair  of  you  that  your  dirty  plots  against  my  paper, 
and  the  various  campaigns  against  the  "Freedom  of  the 
Press,"  hatched  up  in  the  loft  next  door  to  the  Record 

240 


Unconventional  Joan  241 

office,  will  be  ended.  You  have  the  chance  to  stop  me 
before  I  start,  if  you  dare !" 

Manly  stared. 

Keating  waited  a  moment,  then  continued : 

"Thirteen  days  ago  you  bowed  to  this  girl  and  her 
former  lover  at  the  street  corner  where  we  have  been 
meeting  at  six  o'clock,  and  at  the  same  time  handed  out 
to  me  some  bait  about  Englin's  plan  to  "multiply  the 
power  of  the  Press."  You  thought  it  was  very  cleverly 
done.  You  calculated  that  it  would  lead  me  into  an  attack 
on  Englin.  And  it  did.  But  you  didn't  figure  that  the 
consequences  would  involve  so  much  fatality.  You  didn't 
care,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  because  you  were  actuated  by 
the  most  unscrupulous  of  all  motives.  You  planned  to 
have  me  do  the  dirty  work  of  attacking  Englin  and  get- 
ting rid  of  him  so  that  you  could  thereby  take  this  girl 
away  from  him — " 

"Prove  it !"  gasped  Joan,  urged  now  herself  to  spring 
at  Keating's  throat. 

Keating  continued  to  ignore  her,  and  lashed  his  victim 
mercilessly. 

"You  successfully  tempted  me  to  publish  next  morning 
an  attack  on  Englin,  while  at  the  same  time  you  published 
some  bunk  about  wirelss  telephony  to  make  him,  and  es- 
pecially the  girl,  believe  you  were  friendly  to  Englin, 
though  you  were  actually  inducing  me  to  belittle  him  for 
you—" 

"That  proves  nothing,"  put  in  Joan. 

Keating  paid  no  attention  to  the  interruption. 

"While  my  paper  pursued  its  policy  of  attacking  Eng- 
lin, as  one  plotting  against  our  business,  your  paper  kept 
silence.  Was  this  because  you  believed  the  Record's  at- 


242  Unconventional  Joan 

tacks  on  Englin  to  be  just  or  because  you  wanted  the  girl 
to  imagine  you  were  not  inimical  to  him?  You  couldn't 
condemn  him  and  please  her,  could  you  ?" 

"If  the  News  had  defended  Jerry,  your  paper's  attacks 
would  have  been  intensified,"  answered  Joan. 

Keating  still  ignored  her,  and  flung  another  bitter  taunt 
at  Tom. 

"Why  didn't  you,  at  your  age,  go  to  the  Front?" 

"Didn't  you  read  the  account  of  his  intended  departure, 
printed  on  the  evening  of  the  first  announcement  of  the 
armistice?  He  didn't  have  to  go  after  that,"  Joan  con- 
tinued, unchecked  in  her  defence  of  Tom. 

"Oh  yes,  I  read  it,"  Keating  said  replying  to  her  for 
the  first  time.  "He  didn't  go  because  he  feared  Englin 
would  get  you  while  he  was  gone.  That  was  the  quality 
of  his  patriotism !  And  when,  on  November  8th,  the  ad- 
vance rumours  about  the  surrender  began  to  trickle  in  on 
the  wires,  and  there  was  no  likelihood  of  his  having  to 
go,  he  took  the  chance  of  slapping  into  his  paper  that 
eulogistic  notice  concerning  himself  being  about  to  go 
which  he  ripped  out  an  hour  later,  when  the  people  began 
celebrating  the  evident  certainty  of  the  impending  armis- 
tice— after  he  had  made  a  record  of  his  unselfish  patriot- 
ism for  the  attention  of  his  friends." 

Joan  looked  at  Manly.  He  no  longer  stared.  Like  a 
prisoner  at  the  bar  he  stood  mute,  with  downcast  eyes, 
submissive  to  his  judge's  scathing  denunciation  of  him. 

Keating  went  unsparingly  on  with  his  flogging. 

"When  Englin  fled,  effectually  disgraced,  through  your 
marvellously  clever  use  of  the  Record  to  expose  him  and 
get  rid  of  him,  it  was  your  voice  that  told  me  over  the 
telephone  that  he  had  disappeared.  You  thought  I  did 


Unconventional  Joan  243 

not  recognize  you.  I  didn't  at  first.  But  I  did  after  you 
had  abruptly  hung  up,  and  I  recognized  your  motive,  too, 
in  wanting  him  to  be  as  quickly  as  possible  condemned  in 
the  Record  columns  to  eternal  obloquy,  so  as  to  make 
room  for  yourself  with  the  girl ;  and  I  played  up  to  your 
dirty  game,  and  damned  him  as  you  wanted  him  damned, 
not  to  please  you  and  help  your  scheme,  but  because  I 
hated  him  for  his  plotting  against  the  Press." 

Joan  bewildered  stumbled  away  from  Manly  and  sank 
into  a  chair,  while  he  mechanically  stalked  across  the 
room  to  the  telephone,  sat  down  beside  it,  and  waited  for 
Keating  to  finish. 

The  room  and  its  contents  began  to  swim  in  Joan's 
vision.  Deliriously  and  dimly,  she  seemed  to  see  two 
snakes  coiled  and  striking  at  each  other,  while  people 
round' about  cowered,  trembling  from  fear  that  the  veno- 
mous fangs  would  strike  in  their  direction.  Faintly  she 
heard  a  hissing  voice: 

"You  put  Pogo's  wench  into  the  Church  to  desecrate 
it,  as  a  means  of  helping  you  on  with  your  conquest  of  the 
girl.  Your  paper,  that  might  have  helped  the  Rector  and 
his  daughter,  and  saved  them,  if  you  believed  in  them, 
damned  them  and  suffocated  them  with  silence,  deliber- 
ately—" 

"No,  no!  Not  that!  Not  deliberately!"  Joan  seemed  to 
hear  herself  protesting,  as  it  was  astoundingly  being 
revealed  to  her  that  Tom  Manly  had  fallen  a  victim  to 
the  "Press-promoted  passivity"  for  which  he  was  largely 
responsible.  "Concoctor  of  conventional  cowardice," 
Larry  had  alliteratively  denounced  him,  "propagator  of 
popular  practice" — "supporter  of  servile  submission  to 
things  as  they  are" — she  realized  that  he  had  been  con- 


244  Unconventional  Joan 

sistently  and  fatally  controlled  by  the  very  rules  of  ex- 
pediency which  he  had  helped  to  set  up,  in  place  of  the 
dictates  of  conscience. 

The  hissing  voice  continued: 

"When  I  took  the  girl  into  my  employ,  you  knew  I 
didn't  do  it  on  her  merit  as  a  newspaper  writer.  But  you 
let  it  go  at  that.  You  calculated  it  would  help  to  wear 
her  down  and  subject  her  to  your  designs  upon  her.  And 
after  I  verified  my  suspicions  of  her,  by  catching  her  in 
the  very  act  of  trying  to  wreck  my  paper,  it  was  no  ad- 
ditional surprise  to  find  you  playing  up  to  her  newsboy 
scheme,  pretending  not  to  recognize  her  at  the  corner,  and 
having  her  come  to  you  by  your  tricky  note.  It's  a  nice 
piece  of  work,  Manly — taking  her  from  Englin,  using  her 
in  your  paper's  interests  against  me — it's  a  good  story — " 

The  room  began  fantastically  to  revolve  round  Joan 
with  a  swift  whirling  motion  that  seemed  to  form  a  cir- 
cular dish  with  blurred  objects  in  it — a  sort  of  round  nest 
— a  nest,  that  was  it — a  nest  of  snakes  darting  and  biting 
at  each  other  with  the  quickness  of  lightning  flashes.  She 
crouched  back  in  a  corner  out  of  their  way.  The  sight 
of  them  was  appalling;  the  stench  was  sickening.  She 
could  not  stand  it.  She  would  have  to  get  out.  With  a 
tremendous  effort  she  tried  to  pick  her  way  to  an  opening. 
The  centre  of  the  nest  wavered  beneath  her  weight. 

"Alley?"  Did  she  hear  some  one  say  "alley?"  Yes,  she 
was  sure  she  heard  a  voice: 

"Don't  you  dare  go  back  to  the  alley,"  it  said. 

Another  tremendous  effort — she  was  out  of  it — out 
into  the  warm  rain — no,  not  rain — piteous  delusion — 
tears! — streaming  upon  her — hot  tears  furrowing  her 
cheeks,  draining  her  heart  of  all  but  its  last  bit  of  strength, 


Unconventional  Joan  245 

blinding  her  completely  and  beating  her  down  to  the 
ground. 

ii 

"She's  gone,"  said  Keating,  triumphantly. 

Manly  stood  up  and  stared  out  through  the  open  door. 

His  face  was  livid. 

"You  let  her  go,"  Keating  sneered  at  him.  "I've  di- 
vided the  pair  of  you,  made  her  despise  you,  and  put  you 
with  your  newspaper  under  my  thumb,  as  I  told  you  I 
would  do.  I  call  it  a  good  night's  work.  Now  I  am  go- 
ing back  to  the  office  to  report  that  you  didn't  murder 
me,  and  then  I  am  going  home  to  bed  to  dream  about  how 
much  older  and  wiser  a  newspaper  man  is  the  editor  of 
the  Record  than  the  editor  of  the  News,  while  you  sit 
here  plotting  how  you  are  going  to  retaliate  by  annihila- 
ting me  in  your  paper  tomorrow.  Go  ahead !  But  don't 
forget  that  I  hold  a  couple  of  interesting  photographs  of 
your  private  life  to  reveal  if  you  go  too  far !  And  mean- 
time buy  the  morning  Record  and  learn  from  a  certain 
bit  of  interesting  news  in  it  that  it  does  not  pay  to  inter- 
fere with  the  'Freedom  of  the  Press.'  Good  night." 

He  walked  calmly  out  and  shut  the  door  behind  him. 

in 

When  the  executioner  had  departed,  his  victim,  coming 
to  life,  feebly  lifted  the  telephone  receiver  off  the  hook 
and  called  up  the  office  of  the  News. 

"I  neglected,  before  I  left,  to  tell  the  night  staff  to  be 
on  hand  an  hour  earlier  this  evening.  See  that  they  are 
told,"  he  nervously  ordered. 


246  Unconventional  Joan 

"It's  half-past  two,  and  everyone  has  gone  for  the 
night,"  replied  his  assistant. 

"Call  them  all  up  and  tell  them,"  said  Manly. 

"Right,"  answered  the  assistant,  remarking  to  him- 
self as  he  made  the  memorandum:  "Some  big  story  must 
be  going  to  break  tonight.  I  wonder  who's  going  to  be 
exposed  now?" 

Tom  Manly  rushed  wildly  out  into  the  darkness  to  find 
Joan. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


'  I  VHE  little  form  that  had  deliriously  found  its  way 
•*•    back  to  the  alley  before  it  collapsed  beside  Bill's 
truck,  was  discovered  by  him  late  in  the  morning  huddled 
in  a  heap. 

Unconsciousness  had  yielded  to  sleep  when  Bill  tenderly 
picked  Joan  up,  trying  to  avoid  awakening  her,  and  laid 
her  in  the  truck. 

The  Record  bully  had  duly  spread  the  news  that  the 
Kid  was  a  girl.  Bill  realized  it  the  instant  that  he  heard 
the  tale,  and  understood  then  why  he  had  been  so  strongly 
attracted  to  her  from  the  first. 

Joan  stirred  in  Bill's  arms,  and  tried  to  speak.  It  was 
only  a  feeble  murmur. 

"They  warned  me  not  to  come  back  to  the  alley,  but 
there  was  no  place  else  to  go  except — "  she  intended  to 
say  "the  loft,"  but  sank  deliriously  into  sleep  again,  as 
Bill  gently  placed  her  on  the  floor  of  the  truck  and 
smoothed  back  her  hair. 

Instantly  Joan  of  Arc  entered  the  fatal  cart  of  execu- 
tion with  her,  lifted  her  up,  and  said  softly: 

"Joan." 

She  gazed  at  her  guardian  with  a  wan  little  smile,  and 
answered  meekly: 

"You  have  something  to  tell  me?" 

"Yes,  Joan,  if  thou  canst  bear  it." 

Joan  did  not  answer  at  once.  No.  She  did  not  think 
she  wanted  to  hear  any  more. 

The  Rector's  sympathetic  voice  encouraged  her. 

"Be  brave,  Joan,"  he  urged. 

247 


248  Unconventional  Joan 

She  turned  from  his  strong  face  to  her  guardian  angel, 
strengthened,  and  answered: 

"Yes,  I  will  hear  it." 

"I  am  come  to  be  with  thee  at  the  end,  Joan." 

It  was  then  that  Bill  felt  her  little  body  twitch  beneath 
his  hand,  which  protectingly  caressed  her.  And  he 
thought  he  heard  her  whisper: 

"The  procession,  you  mean?" 

Trinity  chimes  began  to  toll  the  hour  of  noon. 

"Yes,"  mumbled  Bill,  "tomorrow  at  this  hour." 

"Thy  triumphal  procession  to  thy  reward,"  The  con- 
soling words  of  the  Angel  fell  softly  on  Joan's  ears. 

"My  reward — for  failure?"  she  gasped. 

"Thy  reward,  Joan,  but  not  for  failure — blessed  mar- 
tyrdom !" 

Bill  felt  a  spasm  convulse  the  limp  little  body  in  his 
arms. 

"When?"  pleaded  Joan. 

Trinity  chimes  tolled  the  last  stroke  of  twelve. 

"Now,  Joan,  now.    Look,  we  are  on  the  way." 

She  began  to  sob  in  her  sleep,  and  moan,  and  twist  first 
one  way,  then  another. 

Bill  could  hardly  endure  it.  For  an  instant  he  turned 
away,  with  the  tears  welling  up  in  his  eyes.  Then  he  was 
quickly  on  his  knees  beside  her,  soothingly  muttering: 

"There,  there—" 

And  then  the  violent  sobs  that  shook  her  body  grew  less 
and  ceased.  The  Spirit  of  Joan  of  Arc  had  shown  the 
little  Joan  the  shining  badge  around  her  forehead — the 
badge  that  glistened  like  the  sun  as  her  guardian  angel 
unbound  it  and  pointed  to  its  golden  lettering: 

"Protester — Dissenter." 


Unconventional  Joan  249 

Proudly  she  helped  to  deck  her  brow  again  with  the 
emblem  of  her  honour — proud  indeed  to  proclaim  to  all 
the  world  her  dissention,  her  protestation  against  the 
evil  might  of  Convention. 

Convention — that  now  would  wreak  its  vengeance  on 
her,  blazoning  abroad  its  unassailable  supremacy. 

The  very  trappings  of  the  horses  that  drew  the  cart 
were  stamped  and  decked  with  a  colossal  "C",  and  the 
banners  of  the  guards  along  the  route  flaunted  it  boldly. 
But  here  and  there  behind  the  guards  she  saw  the  banners 
of  her  "Army  of  the  Victims  of  the  Vicious  Press,"  and 
behold,  held  firmly  back  by  the  sabres  of  the  tyrant's 
forces,  she  glimpsed  thousands  upon  thousands  of  her 
cohorts,  stretching  far  away  into  the  depths  of  the  city. 
Sad  and  singular  spectacle !  There  to  honour  her,  though 
powerless  to  protect. 

As  the  cart  turned  into  Newspaper  Row  and  paused  in 
front  of  the  newspaper  offices,  Tom  Manly,  with  ghastly 
face  and  dishevelled  hair  tore  frantically  through  the  mob, 
and  flinging  himself  upon  his  knees  beside  the  cart,  threw 
up  his  hands  to  her  and  piteously  pleaded: 

"Forgive  me,  Joan,  forgive  me !" 

And  out  of  her  aching  heart  she  forgave  him,  and  in  an 
infinite  compassion  bent  down  and  told  him  that  she 
understood  that  it  was  not  he,  but  only  the  poor  weaker 
side  of  him,  trammelled  by  Convention,  caught  in  the  toils 
of  popular  practice,  that  had  schemed  and  plotted  so  to 
seize  her. 

Midway  between  the  two  newspaper  offices  had  been 
erected  a  platform,  and  the  stake  at  which  she  was  to 
suffer. 

Keating,  Pogo  and  a  band  of  business  men  of  the  city 


250  Unconventional  Joan 

mercilessly  judged  her.    Short  shrift  from  such  as  these. 

"Protest  against  Convention  is  futile." 

The  mandate  of  the  judges,  pronounced  by  one  of  their 
minions,  typical  in  the  hideously  familiar  eyeshade  of  the 
reporter,  cut  clear  and  sharp  into  the  tense  silence. 

"Disssent  from  common  practice  is  destructive  of  the 
common  good.  Protesters  and  dissenters  must  be  de- 
stroyed, to  prevent  their  destruction  of  what  is  best  for 
all." 

And  with  the  words: 

"So  perish  all  the  enemies  of  the  Press,"  he  delivered 
her  to  her  executioner,  behind  whose  mask  glittered  the 
venomous,  gloating  eyes  of  Keating,  her  arch-enemy. 

Joan  looked  beseechingly  around  for  friends.  There, 
close  by  her  side,  stood  the  serene  form  of  Joan  of  Arc, 
and  near  at  hand  were  Margaret  and  her  father,  proudly 
erect,  and  comforting  and  encouraging  her  with  their 
eyes. 

And,  as  she  looked,  Jerry  came  and  stood  beside  her. 

Wistful,  gentle  Jerry. 

"Jerry!"  she  breathed. 

A  world  of  love  in  the  single  word — an  ecstacy  of  con- 
tentment !  She  smiled  radiantly  at  him  through  her  blind- 
ing tears. 

His  dear  eyes  were  worshipping  her  again.  She  could 
read  them  so  distinctly. 

"Give  her  strength  to  be  a  woman,"  they  were  saying. 

"Oh,  Jerry,  how  could  I,"  she  pleaded,  "how  could  I 
without  you?" 

She  stretched  out  her  hands  to  him. 

"I  needed  you,  Jerry,"  she  chidingly  sobbed,  "I  needed 
you  ever  so  much  more  than  I  knew — how  could  I  do 


Unconventional  Joan  251 

anything  except  through  you— taking  you  away  took 
everything  that  the  woman  who  loved  you  needed  to  have, 
Jerry — needed  to  have  to  be  a  woman — to  do  as  you 
wanted  me  to  do — to  do  my  work  through  another — 
through  you — to  be  normal — natural — right-minded — 
Jerry — can't  you  see  that,  Jerry? — took  away  my  reason 
- — see — I  can't  even  think  right  any  more — without  you 
— Jerry !"  She  pressed  her  hands  to  her  eyes.  "And  I 
want  to,  so  much,  Jerry,  I  want  to  'be  just  as  you  want  me 
to  be — and  you  can  make  me  so,  Jerry — you  can  bring 
back  everything  to  me — oh,  dear  Jerry,  I  must  be  with 
you—" 

His  eyes  were  compassionately  answering  her — telling 
her  that  she  would  come  to  him  instantly  through  her 
martyrdom.  Joan  of  Arc  was  telling  her,  too. 

"Must  I,  Jerry?"  the  frail  mortal  in  her  pleaded,  as  he 
helped  the  little  form  to  mount  the  scaffold  to  the  stake 
and  the  faggots  that  awaited  her. 

"Yes,  Joan,"  she  heard  him  tenderly  answer  her,  shield- 
ing from  the  stare  of  the  mob  her  little  limbs  so  soon  to 
be  encircled  by  the  flames. 

"I  will  go,  Jerry,"  she  said  submissively,  striving  to 
hide  her  limbs  by  pulling  down  her  jacket  over  her  news- 
ie's  knickers,  as  if  by  a  final  feminine  instinct.  "You  wait 
here,  just  in  front  of  me,  so  that  I  may  see  you  to  the 
end." 

She  placed  her  back  against  the  stake  and  gazed  down 
into  his  worshipping  eyes.  Then  she  saw  Keating  mount 
up  to  the  top  of  the  scaffold  beside  her  and  set  to  his 
task.  Around  her  neck  she  felt  him  fasten  a  thick  rough 
rope,  twisted  and  knotted,  chafing  her  delicate  skin  and 
twining  round  it  like  an  earthworm  round  a  flower.  Then 


2S2  Unconventional  Joan 

^/  +/ 

around  her  slender  body  he  wound  chains  that  would  hold 
her  fast  throughout  her  fiery  ordeal,  till,  vanquished  fin- 
ally, she  won  her  freedom  from  their  fetters. 

Just  before  he  touched  the  torch  to  the  faggots,  she 
heard  Keating  call  up  to  her: 

"Will  you  conform  to  Convention,  Joan?" 

The  tones  of  his  voice  were  kindly,  and  for  the  first 
time  he  called  her  by  her  name.  He  had  a  gentle  and 
plaintive  accent  which  contrasted  sadly  with  the  haughty 
harshness  of  his  features. 

But  Jerry's  eyes  spoke  courage  to  her  heart,  in  the  last 
torment  of  temptation,  and  she  called  out  loudly: 

"Let  me  die!" 

ii 

"No!  No!  No!  No!"  exclaimed  Bill,  answering  her 
loud  cry,  chafing  her  hands  and  rudely  arousing  her  from 
her  delirious  sleep. 

She  raised  her  eyelids,  looked  at  Bill,  then  closed  them 
again  suddenly — wanting  to  see  Jerry. 

"Where  am  I,  Bill?"  she  asked,  later,  mistily  recog- 
nizing him  through  her  tears. 

"In  the  alley,  in  the  truck,  in  my  arms." 

"Are  you  sure,  Bill?"  she  asked  faintly. 

"Quite  sure,  little  lady." 

"Oh! — I — thought  I  was  with — somebody  else." 

"Would  you  prefer  to  be?"  he  questioned,  hanging 
upon  her  answer.  She  sat  up,  and  patted  his  arm. 

"You  know  you  have  been  calling  his  name,"  he  told 
her. 

"Jerry?"  she  enquired. 

Bill  solicitously  nodded  his  head. 


Unconventional  Joan  253 

"Next  to  him,  Bill,  you  have  a  terribly  big  place  in 
my  heart— but  you  see,  he  used  to  have  the  whole  of  it—- 
you would  have  understood  if  you  had  known  him — 
and  the  memory  of  him  and  the  hurt  of  never  being  able 
to  have  him  will  always  be  there.  It  has  affected  me 
a  bit,  Bill.  I'm  not  just  as  I  ought  to  be." 

Bill  understood.  He  knew  that.  He  did  not  need  to 
be  told.  He  had  known  it  all  along.  His  silence  now 
as  much  as  said  so. 

"You  see,  I  have  got  to  be  with  him  to  grow  better, 
Bill,"  she  explained.     "No  one  else,  not  even  you,  Bill, 
will  do.     I  have  got  to  die  to  be  with  Jerry — " 
Bill  looked  anxiously  up  the  alley  for  Nell. 
Joan  began  to  fumble  nervously  with  the  newspapers 
lying  in  the  truck. 

"What  is  it,  little  girl — what  is  it  you  want?"  Bill 
asked. 

"His  picture — I  used  to  have  it — maybe  there's  one 
in  the  paper — there  was  one  in  it  once,"  she  ravingly 
prattled. 

She  pressed  one  of  the  papers  to  her  bosom,  as  if  it 
were  Jerry's  picture.  It  was  the  Record.  She  did  not 
want  that  vicious  thing  near  her.  She  threw  it  from 
her.  It  fell  open  by  her  side.  There  on  its  front  page 
was  the  "other  story"  that  Keating  had  vindictively 
promised. 

"Bill — Bill,"  she  cried,  "am  I  wandering — am  I  read- 
ing it  right?" 

Bill,  ignorant  of  its  significance  to  her,  read  the  head- 
line to  ease  her: 

"Electrical  Englin  Arrested." 


254  Unconventional  Joan 

Joan  hysterically  clutched  Bill's  arm,  pulled  herself 
up  on  her  knees  beside  him  and  read  on: 

"Jerry  Englin  arrested  at  instigation  of  the  'Record' 
for  violating  War  Regulations  governing  -wireless.  Re- 
cent tinklings  of  city  telephone  bells  due  to  his  experi- 
ments, which  set  up  electrical  interferences.  Caught  last 
night  in  his  loft  laboratory.  Now  in  city  jail,  etc.,  etc." 

Joan's  poor  head  swayed  helplessly  upon  her  over- 
burdened shoulders,  as  she  sagged  down  against  Bill. 

The  gigantic  crushing  mass  of  her  crowning  sorrow 
fell  like  stone  upon  her! 

At  last  the  uttermost  depths  of  despair! 

The  tragic  climax  of  her  unconventional  career! 

Before  her  yawned  her  bottomless  abyss! 

Poised  on  the  brink,  before  her  leap,  she  dimly  dis- 
cerned and  surveyed  in  its  depths  the  frightful  ruins  of 
the  struggle  with  the  vicious  Press. 

Margaret  and  her  father  in  their  graves! 

Larry  in  the  asylum! 

The  Church  ridiculed! 

The  book  shop  ruined! 

Tom  Manly  corrupted ! 

Herself  disgraced,  deserted,  abandoned  to  a  life  of 
horrible  memories! 

Jerry  in  prison! 

And  she  could  have  intercepted  him,  during  the  night, 
she  bitterly  realized — the  lone  pedestrian  who  passed 
unrecognized  behind  her  in  the  darkness  at  one  o'clock 
in  the  morning — probably  on  the  way  back  to  the  loft 
to  get  some  of  his  equipment — while  she  sat  looking  up 
from  the  kerb  at  Tom's  window ! 


Unconventional  Joan 
•f 

But  now  he  was  locked  in  a  felon's  cell,  and  the  Record 
could  be  counted  upon  to  keep  him  there. 

While  Keating  would  continue  to  prosper  and  Pogo 
would  continue  to  prosper  and  Peggy  would  continue 
to  prosper! 

And  the  Record  would  remain  supreme  over  the  News! 

With  Keating  triumphant  over  Manly! 

And  convention  vanquishing  idealism! 

Jerry's  sacrifice  of  love  in  vain ! 

Her  own  conscientious  fidelity  to  instinct  unrequited ! 

Everything  dear  to  her  destroyed ! 

In  all  the  range  of  the  expressions  of  human  emotion 
there  was  left  to  her  no  rational  outlet  for  the  misery 
of  her  soul. 

Childishly  clasping  Jerry's  headline  in  the  Record  to 
her  bosom,  she  crumpled  up,  unconscious  and  deliriously 
crooning  in  Bill's  arms. 

The  little  mother  of  the  tea-shop — mad! 

in 

Around  her  an  instant  later  crackled  the  flames  as  they 
began  to  ignite  the  faggots  piled  beneath  her  stake. 

Distress  shone  in  her  eyes — for  Jerry. 

She  had  begged  him  to  stand  where  she  might  see 
him  to  the  end.  But  the  flames  were  reaching  him 
quickly. 

"Save  yourself,  Jerry,"  she  shrieked  pitifully. 

Then  a  wreath  of  pitchy  black  smoke,  interspersed 
with  livid  flames,  shut  him  from  the  sight  of  her  tear- 
filled  eyes,  and  strangled  her  as  the  tongues  of  flame  leapt 
to  her  unsullied  body. 


CHAPTER    XVII 
i 

T3  ILL  sent  hurriedly  for  Nell  and  together  they  worked 
"•"^  over  Joan  in  an  effort  to  restore  her  to  consciousness. 
Bill's  part  was  mainly  patrol  work,  keeping  the  curious 
newsboys  away  from  the  truck,  while  Nell's  maternal 
spirit  arose  and  helped  out  in  the  vital  emergency  as  she 
ministered  to  Joan  in  the  way  that  only  women  can  care 
for  one  another. 

Poor  Bills'  eyes  blinked  mistily,  and  his  big  heart  was 
breaking  with  its  mixed  feelings  of  sorrow  for  Joan 
and  hatred  for  the  vicious  Press.  Joan's  merit  and  pluck, 
and  her  importance  as  revealed  by  the  Record  bully's 
narration  of  the  oppressive  attention  accorded  to  her 
by  the  Record  overnight,  raised  her  in  his  heart  from  the 
level  of  sympathy  to  the  pinnacle  of  his  most  profound 
reverence.  Bill  began  to  feel  that  he  would  gladly  die 
for  Joan  if  she  could  be  saved  and  enabled  to  go  on  with 
her  fight. 

"Is  she  any  better,  Nell?"  he  solicitously  enquired, 
peering  over  the  side  of  the  truck. 

At  last  he  heard  Joan's  voice  asking  feebly: 

"Is  that  Bill?" 

He  leapt  up  beside  her.  Nell  was  bathing  her  temples 
with  cold  water.  Her  poor  little  lips  trembled,  as  her 
eyes,  big  with  fright,  recognized  him.  She  spoke  to 
him: 

"Bill,  let  me  stay  right  here,  in  the  alley,  with  you  and 
Nell — don't  take  me  away." 

Her  eyes  closed  heavily  again  while  she  was  looking  at 
him. 

256 


Unconventional  Joan  257 

"Is  she  gone,   Nell?  he  sobbed. 

"Sleeping,  Bill.  She's  gone  to  sleep.  It  isn't  uncon- 
sciousness now,"  Nell  reassured  him. 

Bill  almost  laughed  in  his  relief. 

"That's  good — that's  good,"  he  kept  repeating,  "and 
she  stays  right  here,  Nell,  you  understand?  What  she 
says  goes!  She  stays  right — " 

He  caught  sight  of  the  Record  bully  who  had  blackened 
her  eye,  peering  into  the  truck  with  the  newsboys  who 
had  crowded  up. 

"You  damned  rascal,"  he  shouted,  as  he  gritted  his 
teeth  and  jumped  over  the  side,  pursuing  the  terrified 
lout  like  a  fiend,  until  he  had  come  close  enough  to  him 
to  land  a  demolishing  kick,  when  he  let  go  with  all  his 
weight  behind  the  blow,  missed,  and  came  down  on  his 
back,  as  the  bully  disappeared  in  the  crowd. 

Picking  himself  up,  and  turning  back  up  the  alley 
toward  the  truck,  he  saw  Tom  Manly  come  through  the 
alley-exit  from  the  News  building  and  walk  toward  the 
truck.  Bill  made  for  him  on  the  run.  He  felt  an  im- 
pulse to  smash  his  doubled  fist  against  every  newspaper 
official  in  the  city.  The  editor  of  the  News  saw  him 
coming,  turned  back  with  as  much  dignity  as  he  could 
command  in  the  small  period  of  time  allowed  to  him, 
gained  the  door  of  the  News  building  ahead  of  Bill  and 
shut  it  in  his  face. 

A  few  minutes  later,  after  Bill  had  returned  to  his 
station  beside  the  truck,  Tom  Manly  slipped  out  into  the 
alley,  unnoticed  by  Bill,  approached  a  group  of  newsies 
near  the  door  and  enquired: 

"What's  going  on  in  the  truck?" 

"Sick  newsie,"  they  told  him.    "Coin'  to  die.' 


•  • 


258  Unconventional  Joan 

He  started  down  towards  the  truck.  Bill  saw  him 
coming.  Manly  put  up  his  hands  to  arrest  attention. 
For  answer,  Bill  let  out  a  volley  of  oaths  and  advanced 
menacingly. 

"It's  a  world  of  hellish  torment,  I  say,  and  it's  devils 
of  newspaper  men  like  you  who  are  constantly  making 
it  more  miserable  instead  of  better!  I'll  work  for  none 
of  you  any  longer." 

Tom  Manly  raced  for  his  life  back  behind  the  protect- 
ing door. 

From  time  to  time  during  Wednesday  afternoon  the 
editor  of  the  News  came  to  the  alley  door  and  looked 
down  in  the  direction  of  the  truck  securely  guarded  by 
Bill,  wholly  unconscious,  of  course,  of  the  extreme  seri- 
ousness of  its  occupant's  condition.  Scrutinizing  him 
from  a  distance,  Bill  thought  he  had  grown  older  during 
the  day.  He  had  thought  the  same  thing  about  him 
when  he  had  seen  him  searching  up  and  down  the  alley 
the  preceding  day. 

II 

Upstairs  in  the  editorial  rooms  of  the  News  there  was 
tense  excitement.  An  important  meeting  of  both  morn- 
ing and  afternoon  staffs  had  been  scheduled  to  be  held 
late  in  the  afternoon,  before  work  was  commenced  on 
the  morning  edition.  During  the  day,  as  on  the  day  pre- 
ceding, reporters  noticed  that  serious  and  confidential 
conferences  were  being  held  between  the  editor  and  his 
assistants.  It  was  rumoured  that  the  preparations  and  the 
meeting  had  to  do  with  an  overwhelming  attack  upon  the 
Record. 

As  the  time  for  the  scheduled  staff-meeting  drew  near, 


Unconventional  Joan  259 

suspense  over  what  might  be  the  projected  exposures  of 
the  Record  affected  the  conversations  of  the  waiting 
writers.  A  remark  of  one  of  them,  looking  across  the 
street  at  the  camp  of  Keating,  typified  the  thoughts  in 
the  minds  of  all: 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  be  in  your  position,  tomorrow,"  he 
said. 

When  the  combined  meeting  of  the  staff  was  called  to 
order,  much  as  a  general  would  gather  around  him  his 
assistants  preparatory  to  an  attack,  the  editor  of  the  News 
presented  the  anxiously  anticipated  material  for  the 
morning's  sensational  revelations  in  the  form  of  two 
astounding  articles,  which  took  away  the  breath  of  the 
members  of  the  staff  to  whom  they  were  passed  for  crit- 
icism, correction  and  approval. 

Just  at  this  moment  Bill  was  looking  up  from  the  alley 
at  the  brilliantly  illuminated  editorial  floor  of  the  News, 
and  profanely  speculating: 

"I  wonder  what  hellish  exposures  they  are  up  to  to- 
night !  Damn  them,  anyhow,  and  their  eternal  exposures. 
I'll  read  no  more  of  them !" 

He  kept  his  word.  All  night  long  he  guarded  the 
truck  where  Joan  lay  sleeping  beside  Nell,  and  when  the 
foreman  of  the  press-room  came  out,  according  to  cus- 
tom, and  brought  him  a  first  copy  of  the  paper,  with  the 
exclamation,  "Can  you  beat  that  for  an  answer  to  the 
Record? — he  hurled  it  back  into  his  face  and  told  him  to 
"go  to  hell." 

Bill's  vociferous  explosion  awakened  Nell,  who  ordered 
him  to  keep  quiet.  Joan  half  awoke  and  muttered, 
"Jerry." 

"That's  a  good  sign,"  thought  Bill,  "she's  just  sleep- 


260  Unconventional  Joan 

ing."  Aloud  to  Nell  he  inquisitively,  and  Nell  imagined, 
enviously,  said: 

"Who's  this  Jerry?" 

Nell  explained  to  him  that  it  was  the  Jerry  Englin  who 
had  been  put  in  jail  by  the  Record,  and  the  greatest  act 
of  self-control  that  Bill  had  ever  practiced  in  his  life 
was  his  restraint  at  that  moment  of  his  hatred  of  Keating, 
that  was  piling  up  prodigiously  in  his  heart  against  the 
time  when  it  could  be  no  longer  restrained  and  would 
break  furiously  upon  the  head  of  the  fiend  whose  func- 
tion seemed  to  be  to  despise  and  destroy. 

in 

Joan  awoke  in  the  truck  on  Thursday  morning  oblivi- 
ous of  the  past.  Dumb  apathy  had  taken  the  place  of 
outraged  feelings.  Faculties  that  had  functioned  pa- 
thetically in  excess  of  their  capacity  refused  to  function 
any  longer.  A  glassy  stare  from  vacant  blue  eyes  be- 
trayed the  mental  havoc  that  her  shocks  had  wrought. 

Frightened,  Nell  sent  one  of  the  newsboys  after  Bill, 
and  meantime  did  her  best  to  loosen  the  bonds  that  had 
bound  up  Joan's  emotions. 

"I  can't  make  her  cry — I  can't  make  her  smile.  She 
is  senseless,  Bill — she — she  just  looks — and  prattles," 
gasped  awestricken  Nell.  "Poor  kid — ain't  it  hell  to  be 
a  girl."  She  broke  down  and  blubbered. 

Bill  stared. 

"Gawd  Bill,  she's  out  of  her  mind,"  moaned  Nell. 

"Don't  I  know  it,"  mechanically  answered  Bill,  still 
staring  at  Joan's  piteously  emotionless  eyes.  "Haven't 
I  known  it  all  along?  But,  at  that,  she's  sane  enough 
for  me.  If  she  canJt  lead  her  parade  against  the  scoun- 


Unconventional  Joan  261 

drels,    I    can — damn    them — it's    important    enough — •" 

"Getting  her  back  to  normal  is  more  important,"  in- 
terrupted Nell. 

"That  can  be  done,  too,"  answered  Bill. 

"How  are  you  going  to  do  it — I  can't  do  it.  I  can't 
make  her  cry — I  can't  make  her  smile — she  just  stares — " 

"I'm  not  going  to  try.    He's  going  to  do  it." 

"Who's  he?" 

"Jerry — Jerry  Englin — " 

"He's  in  jail." 

"Maybe  we  can  bail  him  out — got  any  money?" 

"No." 

"Makes  no  difference — the  sight  of  him  will  do- 
listen:" 

Bill  drew  somewhat  inaccurately  upon  his  memories  of 
Tennyson  for  Nell's  enlightenment: 

"She  nor  swooned,  nor  uttered  cry; 
All  her  maidens  watching  said, 
'She  must  weep  or  she  will  die.' 

"Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 
Set  her  child  upon  her  knee — 
Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears — 
'Sweet,  my  child,  I  live  for  thee.' " 

"The  sight  of  him  will  do,"  repeated  Bill. 

Nell  led  Joan  around  to  her  lodging  for  a  "bit  of  a 
wash-up  and  some  breakfast"  and  then  she  and  Bill  gently 
took  her  to  the  jail. 

IV 

On  the  way  Bill  tried  to  explain  to  Joan  that  they  were 
going  "to  see  Jerry." 


262  Unconventional  Joan 

It  did  not  seem  to  impress  her  until  she  saw  the  jail 
and  the  bars.  Then  Nell  thought  she  detected  a  sign  of 
returning  intelligence  in  her  childish  prattle.  She  ap- 
peared to  have  identified  the  idea  of  jail  in  her  mind  with 
Jerry. 

"Is  Jerry  in  the  jail  ?"  she  blandly  asked  the  policeman 
behind  the  high  desk. 

Her  head  did  not  reach  to  the  top  of  the  desk,  and  the 
sergeant  had  to  lean  over  to  see  her. 

Bill  and  Nell  towered  protectingly  on  either  side  of  her. 

"Jerry  who  ?"  growled  the  officer  peering  down  at  her. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  forgot  there  were  other 
Jerrys — I  mean  my  Jerry — Jerry  Englin." 

"He  is,"  gruffly  blurted  the  thick  lips  of  the  big  round 
face  pushed  over  to  hers  as  she  rose  up  on  tiptoe  to  see 
and  be  seen. 

"Oh — "  She  sank  back  from  her  toes  and  stood  solidly 
on  the  floor,  dejected,  staring. 

"But  he  is  coming  out,  now,"  continued  the  sergeant. 

"Is  he — is  he  ?"  she  exclaimed,  rising  up  on  her  tiptoes 
again. 

"Yes,  a  chap  named  Manly  was  in  here  and  left  the 
amount  of  his  bail." 

"Oh-oh-oh!"  ejaculated  Joan. 

"That  was  Tom  Manly,  the  editor  of  the  News,"  Nell 
excitedly  reminded  Bill. 

Bill  recollected  his  efforts  to  thrash  him. 

"I'll  remember  it  in  his  favour,"  he  circumspectly 
replied. 

Joan  ran  across  to  an  iron-barred  door  opening  into 
a  corridor  leading  to  the  cells,  and  peered  through  it. 

Nell  leaned  heavily  on  Bill's  arm.     Her  white  lips 


Unconventional  Joan  263 

moved  as  if  in  prayer,  entreating  Heaven  for  the  miracle. 
Bill's  eyes  were  beginning  to  overflow. 

A  wide  shaft  of  light  fell  slanting  from  a  window  and 
lit  up  Joan's  face.  It  had  been  totally  colourless  a  mo- 
ment earlier,  but  now  it  glowed  with  expectation,  smooth 
and  pure  and  still  girlish  in  spite  of  her  terrible  suffering. 

Half  way  down  the  corridor  the  turnkey  opened  a 
clanking  door,  and  she  saw  Jerry  step  into  the  corridor, 
like  a  cowed  animal  let  loose  from  one  steel  cage  into 
another. 

O  agonizing  instant — suspense  unbearable! 

Crisis  of  her  sorrowful  career! 

"God  be  good,"  reverently  muttered  impious  Bill. 

Nell  sobbed  aloud. 

"Jer-ry !"  Joan's  feeble  lips  stuttered,  with  all  the  glad- 
ness of  her  heart  pulsating  in  her  voice. 

Nell  collapsed  upon  Bill's  twitching  shoulder,  weeping 
convulsively.  Bill's  handkerchief  hid  his  brimming  eyes. 

"Jer-ry — Jer-ry — dear  Jerry !" 

He  had  stopped — startled — mystified. 

Wistful,  puzzling,  deliberative  Jerry — he  must  stop 
and  consider  who  this  little  boy  in  the  distance  was. 

Joan's  tiny  jacketed  arms  stretched  through  his  cage, 
towards  him,  standing  there. 

Of  all  places  in  the  world  in  which  to  see  him  again ! 

She  swayed  a  little  and  clung  for  support  to  the  bars. 

"Jer-ry— -dear  Jerry — don't  you  know  me — Jerry?" 

The  sight  of  his  sad  eyes  unloosed  her  tears. 

Yes — he  recognized  the  voice — she  could  see  that — 
but  not  herself.  But  how  could  he — she  suddenly  re- 
alized— in  a  newsboy's  clothes? 

"Jerry,  it's  Joan,"  she  called  to  him. 


264  Unconventional  Joan 

"Joan — Joan — My  God— Joan — " 

The  same  piteous  cry  that  once  before  he  had  uttered 
in  the  loft!  The  same  piteous  need  of  her! 

His  dear  voice  sounding  once  again  in  her  ears. 

He  came  hurrying  towards  her — to  take  her  in  his 
arms. 

"Joan,  my — Joan,  my — my — " 

No — he  suddenly  stopped. 

Not  his !     Tom's ! 

Merciless  disillusion ! 

Conscientious,  considerate,  scrupulous  Jerry — with  the 
same  old  indomitable  spirit  of  resignation  he  broke  off  his 
pathetic  greeting,  remembering  that  he  had  left  her  to 
Tom. 

He  must  control  his  emotions.    She  was  Tom's. 

"Joan — dear  Joan,"  he  substituted,  "it  was  just  like 
you  and  wonderful  old  Tom  to  provide  my  bail  and  get 
me  out  of  here !" 

And  Joan  clinging  weakly  to  his  arm,  and  weeping  as 
he  patted  her  hand,  said  to  him: 

"Jerry,  I  want  to  tell  you  about  Tom."  She  must 
explain. 

"Yes,  Joan — I — I  want  to  hear  about  Tom — about  you 
and  Tom."  It  took  the  whole  of  his  courage  to  say  it — 
to  make  it  seem  to  her  that  he  was  really  happy  over  her 
being  with  Tom.  But  it  tried  him  too  terribly  to  linger 
on  it.  He  sought  to  lead  the  conversation  away  from 
Tom. 

"So  you  are  a  newsboy,  now,  Joan,"  he  playfully  re- 
marked— and  there  he  was  getting  right  back  to  her  with 
Tom  again  because  it  was  plain  to  him  that  her  costume 
meant  she  was  helping  Tom  in  some  of  his  newspaper 


Unconventional  Joan  265 

investigations,  just  as  she  used  to  help  him  faithfully  in 
the  loft.     Once  so  devoted  to  him,  now  devoted  to  Tom ! 

Joan  could  not  answer.  She  wanted  him  to  take  her 
in  his  arms,  right  there,  before  them  all. 

The  evidence  of  her  unknown  suffering  affected  him 
terribly.  So  profoundly  had  she  been  broken  by  despair 
that  her  hold  upon  her  returning  faculties  was  precar- 
iously insecure.  He  surmised  that  her  agitation  was  due 
to  her  recollection  of  their  former  intimacy — hurting  her 
just  as  it  was  unbearably  hurting  him.  He  tried  to  dis- 
tract her  from  it. 

"Won't  you  introduce  me  to  your  friends,  Joan,"  he 
stooped  and  softly  asked  her. 

She  controlled  herself  with  a  tremendous  effort  and 
meaningly  replied: 

"Next  to  you,  Jerry,  these  are  the  two  best  friends  I 
have,  Bill  and  Nell." 

"But  you  have  good  old  Tom,"  he  comfortingly  re- 
monstrated, failing  utterly  to  see  what  she  meant. 

They  moved  to  the  door.  The  sorry  little  procession 
walked  along  aimlessly  in  the  direction  of  Newspaper 
Row — Jerry  and  Joan  together,  Bill  and  Nell  following 
behind.  Homeless,  friendless,  worn  out  from  suffering, 
all  of  them,  shabbily  attired,  practically  penniless,  con- 
fronted by  venomous  court  proceedings  in  the  morning, 
the  little  band  would  never  have  been  picked  by  any  of 
the  prosperous  pedestrians  among  whom  it  made  its  way 
as  being  destined  within  the  hour  to  clash  and  grapple 
stupendously  with  the  mightiest  of  all  earthly  forces,  in 
the  most  important  revolution  that  the  world  had  ever 
seen  attempted. 

They  stopped  at  the  "corner." 


266  Unconventional  Joan 

Jerry  and  Joan  looked  knowingly  into  each  other's 
eyes. 

Their  corner. 

Where  they  had  seen  each  other  last. 

Where  Jerry  had  awkwardly  revealed  his  love. 

The  meeting  place  of  life's  currents. 

Intimate  with  all  their  ups  and  downs. 

Tarrying  place  for  thousands. 

It  had  been  that  to  them. 

Turning  point  for  others. 

Was  it  yet  to  be  the  turning  point  for  them — the  corner 
in  their  lives? 

Snatches  of  familiar  conversation  greeted  their  ears. 

"—Hello  Ed:     Goodbye—" 

" — Come  along  with  me — " 

" — Get  out  of  my  way — " 

"—Let's  turn  here—" 

Joan  bought  the  morning  papers,  as  she  had  done  so 
often  before. 

"I'll  have  one,  too,"  familiarly  said  Bill.  "It's  my 
business,  or  used  to  be,  but  I  haven't  seen  them  yet." 

"We'll  leave  you  here,  a  while,"  said  Nell,  pulling 
reluctant  Bill  away. 

"That's  right,"  acquiesced  Bill.  "We'll  leave  you 
here  a  while — and  you  can  tell  him  about  your  new  clothes 
and  the  black  eye,"  he  added  with  great  seriousness. 
"And  when  you  want  us  we'll  be  back  in  the  alley,  at 
the  paper-room.  You  can  give  us  a  ring,  eh,  Nell  ?" 

Bill  sauntered  slowly  off  after  Nell,  who  led  the  way. 
Joan  gazed  after  them  with  tear-filled  eyes,  and  said  to 
Jerry: 

"I  owe  them  my  life,  Jerry."     Then  she  added,  still 


Unconventional  Joan  267 

trying  to  make  him  understand,  "and  my  return  to  you." 

A  bright  November  sun  shone  full  upon  her,  and  added 
to  the  warmth  of  love  that  burned  her  little  body  through 
and  through.  Life  had  returned.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  had  been  rescued  from  hell  and  borne  into  God's 
bright  world  outside.  She  was  still  clinging  to  Jerry's 
arm. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  about  Tom,"  she  began  again,  as 
soon  as  Bill  and  Nell  had  gone. 

"Yes,  tell  me  about  Tom,  Joan,"  he  answered,  know- 
ing it  would  be  hard  to  hear,  but  wanting  her  to  have 
the  happiness  of  telling  him. 

"Up  in  the  loft,  Jerry;  shall  we  go  up  to  the  loft — 
in  the  old  way?" 

"Yes,  Joan,"  he  replied,  wondering  how  he  would  be 
able  to  stand  going  up  there  with  her  again.  "Let's  go 
up  to  the  loft,  in  the  old  way." 

Arm  in  arm,  helping  each  other,  they  walked  half-way 
down  the  block  to  the  familiar  doorway  alongside  of  the 
Record  building,  and  entered. 

"What  possible  catastrophe  is  waiting  for  us  up  here 
where  we  have  suffered  so  much?"  they  were  both  won- 
dering, as  they  paused  upon  the  threshold. 

"Yelp-yelp-yelp-yelp,"  came  a  chorus  of  canine  voices. 

"That's  the  Paregorics  welcoming  us  back,"  cried  Joan 
happily.  "Come  on,  Jerry,"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  went 
hurrying  up  the  stairs  tugging  at  his  arm. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 


JOAN  sat  down  at  her  little  breakfast  table,  and  said: 
"Jerry,  I  want  to  tell  you  about  Tom." 

"Yes,  Joan,"  he  replied,  very  slowly,  not  anxious,  and 
forcing  himself  to  rejoice  with  her  in  her  happiness  over 
Tom. 

He  picked  up  Tom's  paper,  which  she  had  purchased 
at  the  corner,  to  keep  looking  at  it  while  she  talked  to 
him,  not  trusting  himself  to  watch  her  while  she  spoke 
of  her  happiness  with  his  successful  rival. 

Instantly,  he  ejaculated: 

"Oh!" 

Joan  feared  to  look,  feeling,  as  Bill  had  felt,  that  she 
could  bear  no  more  newspaper  exposures.  Was  it  about 
Jerry,  she  wondered,  or  might  it  be  Tom's  reply  to  Keat- 
ing?" 

She  forced  herself  to  look. 

It  was  Tom's  answer  to  Keating. 

How  monstrous!     Unprecedented!     Extraordinary! 

And  yet,  her  first  hurried  glance  convinced  her  that  it 
was  the  one  natural  and  compulsory  solution  of  his  prob- 
lem— their  problem — the  nation's  problem! 

Veritable  thunderbolt,  unexpected,  mercilessly  fatal! 

Clinging  to  Jerry's  arm,  Joan  stared  in  stupefied  won- 
derment, and  marvelled  at  the  master-stroke  delivered  by 
their  old  schoolmate. 

"Wonderful  Tom!"  commented  Jerry. 

Joan  made  no  reply  as  she  pored  over  the  results  of 
Tom's  Tuesday  and  Wednesday  conferences  with  his 
associates,  as  contained  in  the  two  articles  which  he  had 

268 


Unconventional  Joan  269 

presented  to  his  staff  the  evening  before  for  approval, 
and  which  he  now  presented  to  the  public. 


II 

Occupying  the  whole  of  the  top  of  the  front  page  of 
the  morning  News,  Joan  saw  printed  in  heavy,  dignified 
type: 

MY   CONFESSION 
BY 

Thomas  Manly 
Editor 

Underneath  this  challenging  and  humiliating  headline, 
radically  different  from  any  headline  ever  before  inserted 
in  any  paper  by  any  editor,  followed  a  series  of  terse, 
self-condemnatory  paragraphs: 

"I  am  a  prostitute  among  you,  my  fellow  citizens. 

"I  have  gone  about  among  you,  searching  everywhere  and 
ahvays  for  human  weakness. 

"When  I  have  found  it  I  have  made  money  out  of  it  for 
my  keepers  and  for  myself. 

"When  I  have  failed  to  find  it  I  have  produced  it. 

"Instead  of  being  the  greatest  power  for  good  among  you, 
I  am  the  most  vicious  influence  in  the  lives  of  all 
of  you. 

"Instead  of  serving  you  I  prey  upon  you  and  compel  you 
to  serve  my  keepers,  the  politicians  and  the  profiteers. 

"Instead  of  championing  your  rights,  needs  and  aspirations, 
I  force  the  will  of  my  keepers  upon  you. 


270  Unconventional  Joan 

"/  make  you  believe  in  -war  or  peace,  as  their  profits  demand 
— in  vice  or  virtue,  in  Heaven  or  Hell. 

"Instead  of  publishing  public  opinion  as  I  find  it  I  manu- 
facture it. 

"Instead  of  mental  and  moral  food  I  feed  you  poison  brewed 
by  deputies  of  the  devil — demoralising  rubbish. 

"Therefore  nothing  that  enters  your  home  is  so  contaminat- 
ing and  contemptible  as  my  newspaper. 

"Nobody  is  viler  than  the  man  who  edits  and  is  responsible 
for  the  material  which  it  contains." 

"In  place  of  an  exposure  of  Keating,"  Joan  amazed, 
comprehended  and  said:  "It  is  actually  an  exposure  of 
himself." 

"1  miserably  confess  to  having  been  the  willing  tool  of  my 
unscrupulous  keepers. 

"I  have  accepted  a  princely  salary  to  keep  my  conscience 
out  of  the  paper  which  I  edit  for  them,  not  for  you. 

"Those  under  me  have  been  compelled  to  follow  my  example 
in  order  to  keep  their  jobs. 

"We  pretend  to  justify  our  practices  in  the  name  of  'Free- 
dom of  the  Press'  when  we  have  actually  substituted 
'Licence'  for  'Freedom.' 

"Our  real  business  is  to  lie,  conceal,  exaggerate,  pervert, 
vilify  and  blackmail  for  profit,  under  the  protection 
of  the  'Freedom  of  the  Press.'" 

"Think  of  such  an  admission,"  ejaculated  Jerry,  "not 
accusation  but  admission — and  coming  from  the  lips  of 
an  editor  himself !  Think  of  the  fine  effect  it  will  have 
when  circulated  around  the  country !  Think  of  the  good 
that  it  will  do !  Brave  old  Tom !" 

They  continued  to  read: 


Unconventional  Joan  271 

"It  is  our  secure  professional  prerogative  and  obligation  to 
dishonour  and  ruin. 

"We  arbitrarily  sell  you  for  a  living. 

"We  are  uncontrollable'  mental  and  moral  bandits  who  keep 
you  constantly  afraid  of  us. 

"We  are  fearless  hired  assassins  who  terrorize  you  into 
subjection  to  us. 

"For  money  -we  recklessly  kill  the  things  we  love  most. 

"When  we  cannot  kill  with  the  truth  we  use  half-true1  head- 
lines which  are  just  as  deadly. 

"We  have  never  been  known  to  admit  being  wrong  and  we 
have  never  been  known  to  praise. 

"But  we  have  come  to  feel  the  disgrace  of  prostituting  our 
ability  for  a  livelihood  and  we  have  penitently  decided 
that  if  we  cannot  live  by  promoting  conventional 
uplift,  we  will  go  out  of  existence  rather  than  persist 
in  our  detestable  position  of  propagating  conventional 
demoralization." 

"It  is  your  influence  upon  Tom,  Joan,  that  has  changed 
him,"  said  Jerry  admiringly.  "It  is  your  victory  as  much 
as  it  is  his." 

Joan  was  thinking  of  her  last  words  to  Tom,  when  she 
had  said  to  him :  "Be  brave  enough  to  save  yourself,  and 
make  me  happy  by  letting  me  know  when  you  get  the 
courage  to  do  it." 

Tom  had  found  the  marvellous  courage  to  do  it. 

Tom  always  did — something! 

But  although  making  her  happy  by  his  self -conquest, 
there  was  a  tinge  of  sadness  in  the  happiness  which  she 
could  not  explain. 


272  Unconventional  Joan 

She  read  on: 

"God  helping  us,  we  will  henceforth  attack  the  fundamental 
evils  of  our  social  and  economic  system. 

"Unswayed  by  any  influence,  we  will  print  the  news  that 
is  fit  to  print,  exactly  as  we  see  it,  to  the  best  of  our 
ability. 

"We  can  never  undo  the  wrong  that  we  have  been  respon- 
sible for  in  the  past,  but  we  intend  to  try  in  the 
future  to  use  our  tremendous  influence  properly,  in 
your  interest. 

"Humbly  and  sincerely  signed  for  myself  and  my  staff — 

"Thomas  Manly,  Editor." 

"There  is  no  man  greater  than  the  man  who  humbly 
confesses  and  sincerely  endeavours  to  make  amends," 
commented  Jerry,  with  fires  of  sincere  admiration  and 
extraordinary  excitement  in  his  eyes. 

Joan  read  the  second  article  aloud.     It  was  brief: 

"We,  the  undersigned  members  of  the  staff  of  the  NEWS, 
are  in  sympathetic  revolt  against  the  conventional 
demoralization  propagated  by  unscrupulous  news- 
papers, and  we  pledge  ourselves  to  overthrow  this 
most  despotic  tyranny  that  has  ever  oppressed  the 
human  race." 

Joan  calculated  that  Tom's  revolutionary  policy  meant 
running  the  risk  of  financial  ruin  and  oblivion.  Jerry 
broke  in  on  her  thoughts  with  an  exactly  contrary  re- 
flection: 

"It  is  an  overwhelming  victory,  Joan.  It  spells  ruin 
for  the  Record  and  enormous  prosperity  for  you  and 
Tom.  It  is  unbeatable — " 


Unconventional  Joan  273 

"Jerry,  I  want  to  tell  you  about  Tom,"  Joan  inter- 
rupted him. 

"It  isn't  necessary,  Joan.  Tom  has  told  it  himself — 
told  it  magnificently." 

His  eyes  sparkled  like  the  flashes  of  his  dynamos  as 
he  excitedly  got  up,  walked  back  into  his  workshop,  and 
began  to  busy  himself  with  his  beloved  machines. 

There  was  something  in  his  manner  so  confidently  and 
contentedly  unlike  him  that  Joan  did  not  at  first  under- 
stand. 

His  demeanour  mystified  her. 

Joan  had  never  seen  him  look  so  happy.  Never  before 
in  his  life  had  he  actually  been  so  happy. 

"Let's  find  out  how  the  Record  feels  about  it,"  he  called 
to  her.  "Come  here,  Joan." 

His  happy  eyes  gave  him  away. 

Joan  read  his  secret  in  them  before  he  revealed  it. 

She  flew  to  him  in  an  ecstacy  of  excitement. 

"Jerry — Jerry — tell  me  Jerry — what  makes  you  look 
so  happy? — Jerry — " 

He  was  masterful  in  his  manner ! 

A  skilful  adjustment  of  his  rheostat  and  his  dynamos 
began  to  hum  in  their  soothing  way. 

His  beloved  dynamos!  He  could  not  have  Joan,  but 
he  could  be  absorbed  in  them.  His  mind  slipped  auto- 
matically into  tune  with  their  peaceful  murmuring.  His 
features  took  on  their  wistful  look.  Once  again  he  was 
the  same  old  Jerry. 

Solemn,  meditative,  serious  Jerry. 

With  the  old  deliberation  he  turned  to  her  and  said: 

"Yes,  I  am  happy,  Joan,  tremendously  happy,  Joan, 
because  at  last  I  can  do  something  to  make  you  happy, 


274  Unconventional  Joan 

instead  of  doing  as  I  have  always  done — make  you  sad." 

He  paused  and  lifted  up  the  telephone. 

"Yes,"  he  continued  as  he  listened  with  the  receiver 
at  his  ear,  "I  can  now  do  something  helpful  for  you — 
for  you  and  Tom." 


CHAPTER  XIX 
i 

TT'S  such  a  stupendously  big  thing  that  Tom  has  done 
•*•  — for  you — Joan,  in  fact  for  everybody,  that  my  bit 
won't  mean  so  much  to  you — no,  of  course  not!  What 
am  I  saying?  Of  course  nothing  of  mine  could  possibly 
mean  as  much  to  you  as  what  Tom  has  done.  What 
I  meant,  Joan,  was  that  the  bigness  of  what  Tom  has 
done,  and  the  bigness  about  it  that  must  be  so  grati- 
fying to  you,  and  so  different  in  its  effects  upon  you 
from  anything  that  I  could  do  for  you,  is  his  sacrificing 
self-conquest." 

He  hurriedly  busied  himself  with  the  adjustments  of 
his  mechanism  as  he  talked. 

"It's  tremendous !  Nobody  but  Tom  and  you  can  ap- 
preciate the  bigness  of  it  more  than  I  do,  Joan.  Tom 
has  mastered  the  greatest  obstacles  imaginable  within 
and  without.  Tom  has  done  the  biggest  thing  that  it  is 
possible  for  a  man  to  do.  And,  of  course,  it's  due  to 
you,  Joan;  it  was  done  for  you.  Nothing  really  big 
was  ever  done  by  any  man  excepting  to  please  or  help 
or  save  a  good  woman.  And  when  what  the  man  does 
is  a  sacrifice,  such  as  Tom's,  it  takes  the  best  that  is  in 
a  man — his  most  unselfish  love — to  do  it;  the  kind  of 
love,  of  course,  that  begets  love — demands  love  in  return. 
Happy  girl,  possessing  a  good  man's  love  proved  by 
sacrifice !" 

Abstracted,  argumentative  Jerry,  theorizing  in  the 
same  old  way. 

His  convincing  and  impartial  manner  of  emphasizing 
Tom's  worth  might  easily  have  intensified  solicitude  in 

275 


276  Unconventional  Joan 

many  a  tormented  woman's  heart  to  the  critical  point 
where,  confronted  with  the  obligation  of  selection,  she 
would  weigh  her  love  and  her  sympathy  in  the  same 
scale,  and  choose  the  object  of  her  pity,  to  her  eternal 
misfortune,  or  else  make  no  decision  whatsoever,  and 
simply  suffer  herself  to  be  carried  away  by  the  one  who, 
in  the  hour  of  her  crisis,  stormed  her  heart  and  captured 
it  by  the  very  vehemence  of  his  assault.  Thus  destiny 
sometimes  seems  to  take  unfair  advantage  of  a  heart 
already  overtaxed  and  burdened  with  suffering,  by  bring- 
ing instead  of  surcease  of  sorrow  an  additional  tortuous 
problem  to  test,  and  frequently  to  destroy  the  sufferer. 
Thus  rivals,  regardless  of  merit,  have  lost  or  won  in  the 
race  of  love,  by  force  of  circumstance. 

Joan,  standing  beside  Jerry  in  front  of  his  dynamos 
and  coils,  and  lamps,  and  condensers,  and  batteries  and 
telephones,  listening  as  of  old  to  the  hum  of  the  arm- 
atures, watching  the  sparks  snapping  over  the  induction 
coils,  pressed  him  for  the  details  of  his  invention  in  a 
tactful  effort  to  lead  his  conversation  away  from  Tom 
to  himself.  She  had  been  familiar  with  his  experi- 
ments and  what  he  aimed  to  accomplish  up  to  a  certain 
point,  but  not  beyond. 

"Where  have  you  been  experimenting,  Jerry?"  she 
enquired. 

"Down  at  the  telephone  company's  plant,  mostly,"  he 
replied. 

"Why  did  you  go  down  there?" 

"I  will  show  you,  in  a  minute.  But  I  was  back  here 
in  the  old  loft  again,  night  before  last." 

"You  passed  in  front  of  the  Record  building  going 
toward  the  loft,  after  midnight?" 


Unconventional  Joan  277 

"How  did  you  know?" 

"You  passed  behind  me  sitting  on  the  kerb  in  front 
of  the  Record  Building  looking  over  at  Tom's  office  in 
the  News  Building,"  she  explained  before  she  realized 
what  she  had  said. 

"Oh,  waiting  for  Tom.  Playing  newsboy  in  connec- 
tion with  some  of  his  plans." 

"Jerry,  I  want  to  tell  you  about  Tom — " 

'If  I  had  seen  you  and  stopped  I  might  not  have  been 
arrested,"  Jerry  interrupted  TOST. 

Arrested ! 

Joan  shuddered. 

"When  was  it  that  you  were  arrested,  Jerry?"  she 
asked. 

"Five  minutes  after  I  passed  you,"  he  replied.  "Keat- 
ing caught  me  on  the  fire-escape  that  runs  from  the  loft 
floor  to  his  editorial  floor,  in  the  rear  of  the  building.  I 
had  slipped  a  dictograph  into  his  editorial  room  earlier 
in  the  evening.  I  had  reasons  for  wanting  to  know 
what  goes  on  in  there.  I  am  listening  to  him  now."  He 
placed  a  telephone  receiver  to  his  ear. 

"Keating  had  no  case  against  me.  He  suspected  I 
had  been  responsible  for  the  occasional  ringing  of  the 
telephone  bells  all  over  the  city.  He  called  up  the  au- 
thorities, charged  me  with  making  wireless  experiments 
that  interfered  with  telephone  currents,  invoked  certain 
war  restrictions  under  which  to  hold  me,  sent  me  down 
to  headquarters,  and  had  me  locked  up — " 

"Had  he  any  proof  that  your  experiments  actually 
interfered  with  the  telephone  currents?"  Joan  solicitously 
interrupted. 

"He  will  have  proof  in  a  minute,"  Jerry  answered, 


278  Unconventional  Joan 

with  a  suggestion  of  vindictiveness  in  his  tone,  "but  he 
wasn't  bothering  about  proof.  My  removal  was  his  pur- 
pose, as  it  has  always  been,"  he  continued,  with  restrained 
bitterness,  as  he  went  back  in  his  mind  over  Keating's 
incessant  and  unsparing  campaign  to  eliminate  him  as  an 
enemy  of  the  "Freedom  of  the  Press." 

"Then  you  did  ring  the  city's  telephone  bells?"  Joan 
enquired.  "How  did  you  do  it?  From  the  telephone 
company's  plant?" 

"We  will  do  it  right  from  this  room,"  Jerry  replied. 

"But  you  have  no  wires  running  into  all  the  city's 
homes?"  she  queried. 

"No,  and  neither  has  the  lightning  flash,  Joan,  and 
yet  that  can  and  does  occasionally  ring  every  telephone 
bell  in  the  city.  And  there  are  no  wires  between  the 
wireless  stations  of  two  countries  which  can  telegraph 
and  even  telephone  to  each  other  without  them." 

"True  enough,"  replied  Joan,  "but  wireless  telephone 
equipments  are  fitted  with  delicate  valves  which  detect 
and  rectify  and  amplify  currents  communicated  to  them 
by  such  broadcasting  stations  as  yours  here."  She  picked 
up  one  of  the  tubular  glass  valves,  to  emphasize  her 
argument,  and  pointed  to  the  tuning  apparatus,  as  she 
continued : 

"The  citizens'  telephones  are  not  equipped  with  these 
things,  therefore  they  cannot  receive  wireless  communi- 
cations." 

Jerry  admiringly  let  her  talk,  wanting  her  to  solve  her 
problem  herself. 

"But,  even  though  the  citizens'  telephones  are  not 
equipped  with  detectors  and  amplifiers,  they  are  never- 
theless reached  by  the  electric  waves  which  are  sent  forth 


Unconventional  Joan  279 

by  our  broadcasting  station  here  and  which  reach  every- 
where— "  he  prompted. 

"Reached,  yes,"  Joan  interrupted  him,  "but  the  ordin- 
ary 'phones  are  not  in  tune  with  the  waves  and  can't  get 
in  tune  with  them,  because  they  have  no  tuning  apparatus, 
no  valves,  no  detectors,  no  amplifiers."  She  held  to  her 
point. 

"I  admit  that,  Joan,  but  instead  of  the  telephones  get- 
ing  into  tune  with  the  waves,  did  it  occur  to  you  that  the 
waves  might  be  put  into  tune  with  the  telephones — might 
be  shot  through  the  air  so  completely  in  tune  with  the 
telephones,  .like  the  lightning  flash,  as  to  ring  them,  and 
make  speech  with  them  possible,  without  wires  and  with- 
out detectors  or  amplifiers?" 

"That  is  impossible,"  insisted  Joan. 

"Nothing  is  impossible — at  least  not  forever!"  insisted 
Jerry. 

"Doing  the  impossible  is  what  many  an  amateur  has 
accomplished  when  he  has  made  his  crude  apparatus — 
little  more  improved  than  an  ordinary  'phone — pick  up 
waves  a  thousand  miles  away.  Doing  the  impossible  is 
the  electrical  experimenter's  duty.  It  was  impossible  for 
me  to  do  what  I  have  done  until  you  pointed  out  to  me 
the  proper  test  to  make,  and  until  I  carefully  studied  the 
telephone  company's  equipment;  but  it  is  not  impossible 
now,  and,  if  you  are  ready  we  will  do  it,  and  give  Keating 
his  proof,  and  the  shock  of  his  life,  and  supply  you  and 
Tom  with  an  aid  in  your  campaign  against  the  injurious 
monopoly  of  propaganda  by  the  vicious  Press." 

"But,  Jerry,  if  you  can  lift  up  that  telephone  and  talk, 
unrestrainedly,  to  all  the  telephones  in  the  city  without 
their  being  equipped  with  standardized  receiving  appar- 


280  Unconventional  Joan 

atus,  controlled  by  the  Press,  there  no  longer  is  any  mon- 
opoly of  news  or  propaganda  by  the  Press !" 

The  significance  of  the  invention,  and  its  unlimited 
possibilities,  amazed  her. 

"Exactly,"  quietly  replied  Jerry. 

"Wonderful  Jerry!"  She  applied  to  him  the  epithet 
he  had  so  regularly  applied  to  Tom. 

"Not  so  wonderful  as  the  man  who  first  talked  over  a 
wire,  or  the  man  who  first  telegraphed  without  wires,  or 
the  man  who  first  talked  from  continent  to  continent 
through  the  air,"  Jerry  humbly  replied.  "My  little  in- 
vention is  the  simplest  of  logical  steps  onward  from 
what  has  previously  been  done,  and  it  would  very  quickly 
have  been  accomplished  by  somebody  other  than  myself 
— even  by  some  amateur — if  you  had  not  helpfully  sup- 
plied me  with  the  'missing  link'  on  the  night  of  the  first 
news  of  the  Armistice." 

"But  its  possibilities  are  prodigious,"  insisted  Joan. 
"You  underrated  it  when  you  led  us  to  believe  you  were 
merely  aiming  to  'Multiply  the  Power  of  the  Press.'  You 
have  not  only  multiplied  but  annihilated  the  power  of  the 
unscrupulous  Press." 

"Annihilate  wireless  broadcasters  of  enemy  propa- 
ganda— it  could  have  done  that  during  the  war,"  he  dis- 
mally reflected,  remembering  the  operations  of  the  Ger- 
man wireless  tower  at  Nauen.  "Today  I  could  have 
closed  this  little  electric  switch  and  unrestainedly  out- 
stripped such  liars  in  a  lightning-like  dash  ahead  of  them, 
to  not  merely  a  few  telephones  in  tune  but  to  all  of  them 
— to  the  brains  of  the  world." 

"You  can  still  do  it  today.  The  broadcasters  of  vicious 
propaganda  are  still  at  it."  She  pointed  to  Keating's 


Unconventional  Joan  281 

room  next  door.  "It  will  be  just  as  valuable  to  the 
nation  now,  and  to  you,  too,  Jerry,"  she  comforted  him. 
"You  will  be  rich,  immensely  rich." 

"I  could  be  richer,"  he  said  to  himself,  thinking  of 
Joan  with  Torn.  Aloud  he  excitedly  said: 

"Just  listen  to  this,  Joan." 

He  handed  her  the  telephone  connected  with  the  dict- 
ograph in  Keating's  editorial  room,  and  strode  vin- 
dictively over  to  the  wall  that  separated  him  from  his 
persecutor.  Once  before  he  had  stood  at  this  same  wall, 
gritting  his  teeth  and  muttering  in  his  ungovernable  re- 
sentment of  Keating's  oppression  of  him:  "I'll  take  away 
from  him  his  power  to  do  to  others  what  he  has  done 
to  me." 

His  hour  had  come ! 

This  time  he  said: 

"I  am  going  to  crush  you  as  I  would  the  vilest  snake 
that  crawls." 

He  could  have  heard  Keating's  venomous  voice  at  that 
very  moment,  screeching  in  fury,  if  he  had  placed  his 
ear  to  the  wall. 

"Oh — oh — oh — listen  to  what  he  is  plotting  to  do  to 
Tom — "  Joan  exclaimed  in  consternation.  "Jerry — we 
must  warn — we  must  save  Tom,"  she  nervously  added, 
and  Jerry  hurried  to  her  side  vowing  that  he  would  pro- 
tect Tom  for  her. 

He  listened  with  the  receiver  for  a  moment,  and  then 

said: 

"We  will  let  the  whole  city  hear  what  Keating  is  plot- 
ting! Ready!  Quick!  Press  the  switch  down,  Joan! 
To  you  belongs  the  honour  of  issuing  the  first  edition 
of  the  freest,  widest,  most  independent  and  unmonopo- 


282  Unconventional  Joan 

lized  news-service  that  the  world  has  so  far  received." 

Joan  pressed  the  switch. 

Instantly  a  hundred  thousand  telephones  rang  in  a 
hundred  thousand  homes,  offices,  workshops,  schools, 
rectories,  hospitals  and  public  institutions,  and  a  hundred 
thousand  men,  women  and  children  listened  in  stupefac- 
tion to  Jerry's  voice  announcing: 

"Your  telephone  is  now  connected  with  the  secret- 
chamber  of  your  despotic  tyrant,  the  editorial  room  of  the 
editor  of  the  Record,  and  you  will  hear  what  the  monster 
and  his  minions  are  plotting  against  you  and  the  editor  of 
the  News  in  retaliation  for  his  courageous  confession  and 
promise  published  this  morning.  Listen!" 

Jerry  switched  on  the  dictograph  wire  from  Keating's 
office,  and  a  hundred  thousand  startled  ears  heard  Keat- 
ing excitedly  repeating: 

" — we  are  ruined — there  is  no  hope  for  the  Record 
against  the  News  now — we  will  set  fire  to  our  building 
at  once — our  insurance  money  is  all  the  money  that  this 
plant  can  ever  make  now — we  will  see  that  the  loft  build- 
ing next  door  is  burned  up  too,  together  with  its  electrical 
apparatus  that  'Electrical  Englin*  is  using  against  the 
Press — there's  a  strong  enough  wind  blowing — maybe  we 
can  burn  up  a  part  of  the  city  too— the  bigger  the  fire 
the  worse  for  the  editor  of  the  News — we  will  implicate 
him — we  will  prove  that  he  enviously  applied  the  torch — 
we  will  have  him  proved  crazy — his  mad  'confession* 
proves  it  already — he  must  go  down  with  us  in  our 
crash — " 

The  hundred  thousand  ears  heard  Keating  repeating 
the  details  of  his  plot  for  a  moment  longer — then  they 
heard  one  of  his  assistants  interrupt  him  and  tell  him 


Unconventional  Joan  283 

what  the  telephones  in  the  room  were  repeating — then 
they  heard  him  curse  Jerry  Englin,  and  give  the  order 
to  'start  the  conflagration  at  once' — and  immediately  a 
hundred  thousand  frightened  and  maddened  listeners 
dropped  their  telephone  receivers  and  went  tearing  and 
crowding  towards  Newspaper  Row. 

ii 

Jerry  and  Joan  ran  to  the  window  and  with  throbbing 
hearts  watched  the  frenzied  mob  below,  as  it  gathered 
for  its  assault  upon  the  Record  building  next  door. 

The  crowd  overflowed  into  all  the  neighbouring  streets. 

Uproar  filled  the  city. 

Bill  and  Nell  waiting  at  the  telephone  for  word  from 
Joan,  had  read  Tom's  paper  and  got  Jerry's  telephone 
revelation.  The  alley  was  jammed  with  men,  women 
and  boy  members  of  Joan's  "Army  of  the  Victims  of 
the  Vicious  Press,"  who  had  not  been  disbanded.  Bill 
and  Nell  hurried  them  into  line  with  their  banners  and 
rushed  them  into  the  street,  where  they  were  now  stand- 
ing in  front  of  the  Record  building,  with  all  their  banners 
turned  towards  Keating's  windows. 

From  their  straining  throats  arose  an  immense  and 
threatening  imprecation. 

Bill  started  upstairs  to  the  loft.     Nell  demurred. 

"I  am  going  up  to  give  her  a  note  from  the  editor  of 
the  News"  he  explained  to  her. 

Joan's  eyes  glistened  as  she  peered  across  the  fire- 
escape  at  the  appalling  climax  of  her  crusade — the  new 
aspect  of  Newspaper  Row — the  removal  of  Government 
from  vicious  newspaper  control  and  its  restoration  to  the 
people. 


284  Unconventional  Joan 

At  that  moment  mid-day  tolled  slowly  out  from  the 
clock  of  Trinity  steeple.  The  appointed  hour — the  hour 
selected  by  Joan  and  Bill  and  Nell — the  hour  selected, 
abandoned,  now  surprisingly  replaced.  The  last  vibra- 
tion of  the  twelfth  stroke  had  hardly  died  away  when 
heads  beneath  the  fluttering  banners  swayed  like  waves 
beneath  a  squall  and  an  immense  shout  went  up: 

"Joan,  Joan!" 

"That's  my  army,"  she  fancifully  informed  Jerry. 
"Bill  and  Nell  and  I  organized  it  to  fight  the  tyranny 
of  the  vicious  Press.  That's  why  I  am  wearing  news- 
boy's clothes."  She  excitedly  told  him  all  about  Joan 
of  Arc. 

Jerry  measured  her  few  feet  of  slender  stature,  and 
murmured  what  Margaret  had  said: 

"Joan,  you're  bigger  than  most  men." 

From  the  crowd  there  came  tremendous  howls  in 
which  were  mingled  all  tongues — all  dialects — all  accents. 

"This  day  makes  history,"  commented  Jerry.  "The 
day  of  the  triple  attack  upon  the  vicious  Press — by  Joan 
and  Tom  and  their  friend  Jerry." 

The  scene  in  the  street  had  become  terrifying.  The 
tumult  was  increasing.  There  was  no  resisting  that  ra- 
ging tide  of  frightful  faces.  Wrath  made  their  fierce 
countenances  blood-red,  their  brows  were  dripping  with 
sweat,  their  eyes  darted  lightnings.  The  fateful  hour  of 
the  Revolution  against  the  unscrupulous  Press  had  come ! 

The  people's  hour!  They  had  silently  hated  their 
vicious  Press  and  had  not  known  what  to  do  about  it. 
Now  they  knew,  and  they  were  doing  it! 

Their  pleas  had  been  ignored.  Their  influence  had 
been  destroyed.  The  stubborn  pride  and  insane  avarice 


Unconventional  Joan  285 

of  their  tyrant  had  driven  them  straight  to  the  precipice 
of  revolution.  The  Record's  cruelty,  greed,  lust  of  power 
and  falsehood  were  to  be  dealt  with  by  other  than  im- 
possible legal  means.  The  pent-up  hatred  of  the  city 
was  let  loose! 

Clubs  of  policemen  hopelessly  beating  back  the  mob 
gave  way  to  the  bayonets  of  boys  deprived  of  using  them 
elsewhere  by  the  sudden  ending  of  the  war.  Instead  of 
the  great  munition  factories  and  depots  which  they  had 
hoped  to  attack  abroad,  these  disappointed  fighters  stood 
sullenly  confronting  Keating's  gigantic  munition  factory, 
where  Pogo  and  other  privileged  interests  manufactured 
mental  bombs  and  gas  shells  for  their  annihilation. 
Threateningly  they  clamoured  for  their  tyrant,  more 
hated  than  the  foreign  enemy. 

Suddenly  dense  clouds  of  smoke  rolled  from  the  upper 
floors  of  the  Record  office. 

The  staff  took  to  the  fire-escapes  and  started  down- 
wards on  the  front  of  the  building. 

A  hundred  rifles  shot  up  to  a  hundred  shoulders  to  pick 
them  off  one  by  one. 

Joan  shrieked ! 

These  boys  who  had  gathered  around  her  in  Keating's 
office,  and  told  her  with  their  eyes  that  they  hated  the 
work  they  had  to  do — they  must  not  die ! 

She  leapt  out  upon  the  fire-escape  that  ran  down  the 
front  of  the  loft  building,  in  the  midst  of  the  smoke,  and 
screamed  above  the  roar  below. 

The  sight  of  her,  still  clad  in  her  knickers  like  one  of 
them,  evoked  an  ovation  from  her  army  of  supporters 
in  the  street,  and  momentarily  distracted  the  riflemen 
from  their  prey. 


286  Unconventional  Joan 

Instantly  she  was  in  command! 

Jerry  had  run  back  to  the  loft  door  to  let  in  some  one 
knocking  at  it — Bill! 

Meantime  Keating  came  crawling  along  the  Record 
cornice  through  the  smoke  and  flames  toward  Joan. 

Rifles  were  jerked  up  to  shoulders  once  again. 

Joan  flung  up  a  protecting  hand. 

The  rifles  were  lowered. 

In  her  eyes  shone  compassion,  and  the  will  to  help. 

In  his  eyes — terror,  hatred,  and  the  lust  for  vengeance. 

"Jerry!"  she  shrieked,  and  reached  over  to  extend  to 
Keating  a  helping  hand. 

But  Jerry  had  gone  to  let  in  Bill. 

Keating  strained  forward  to  take  her  hand. 

The  cornice  crumpled  beneath  his  weight ! 

He  hung  by  his  hands! 

Doomed ! 

Joan  clutched  the  iron  railing  of  the  fire-escape  with 
her  right  hand,  and  leaning  far  over  into  the  blinding 
smoke,  stretched  out  her  left  hand  to  the  poor  wretch 
swinging  within  a  few  feet  of  it. 

From  that  point,  gibbeted,  he  seemed  to  be  showing 
to  the  entire  city. 

"Jerry!"  she  screamed  again. 

Keating  swung  his  body  backward  to  get  momentum 
for  a  lurching  leap  at  Joan's  extended  hand. 

A  doomed  man's  desperate  attempt. 

A  demon's  diabolical  design. 

She  might  sustain  his  weight  if  he  caught  her  hand! 

Mad  hope ! 

If  she  could  not  he  would  carry  her  with  him  down 
to  destruction! 


Unconventional  Joan  287 

Mad  revenge! 

He  leapt. 

Joan's  little  body  strained  towards  him. 

Jerry  and  Bill  reached  the  fire-escape  at  the  instant  of 
the  leap! 

Four  tense  hands  strongly,  agonizingly  grasped  her 
arm — struggled  to  draw  her  back — 

But  Keating's  frantic  clutch  was  on  her  wrist  with  the 
grip  of  death ! 

He  hung  dangling  in  full  view  of  the  horror-stricken 
mob! 

His  dead-weight,  and  part  of  Joan's,  against  the 
strength  of  Jerry  and  Bill! 

And  the  flames  driving  closer! 

All  of  them  on  the  brink! 

The  mob  breathless ! 

Fire-bells  clanged  and  firemen  struggled  to  lift  a  ladder. 

It  would  be  too  late. 

Keating  was  tugging  Joan  down ! 

A  great  gasp  broke  from  the  crowd. 

He  had  let  go! — Shrieking,  they  saw  him  fall  down 
through  the  smoke — to  his  doom. 

in 

Nell  hurriedly  joined  Bill  in  the  loft  after  the  Record 
fire  had  burned  itself  out  and  the  mob  had  dispersed. 

Joan's  eyes  detected  Nell's  motive  instantly.  She  re- 
membered how  reluctant  Bill  had  been  when  Nell  had 
pulled  him  along  with  her  as  the  four  leaders  of  the  little 
band  had  entered  Newspaper  Row  and  stopped  at  the 
"corner"  a  short  while  before— beaten  then— all  four  of 
them — triumphant  now! 


288  Unconventional  Joan 

Joan  glanced  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eyes  at  poor  old 
Bill  looking  at  her  yearningly,  and  confirmed  her  sus- 
picions of  the  motive  of  Nell's  visit.  Then  she  looked 
from  him  to  Nell.  Bill  followed  her  eyes,  and  looked  at 
Nell,  too. 

Nell  was  quietly  weeping. 

Bill  understood. 

His  big  heart  overflowed  in  a  comforting  reassurance 
to  his  pal  that  he  had  "merely  come  up  to  deliver  to  Miss 
Joan  a  note  which  Mr.  Manly  had  entrusted  to  him  to 
give  to  her,"  which  relieved  Nell  completely. 

Joan  turned  crimson  at  mention  of  the  note  from  Tom, 
and  looked  towards  Jerry  standing  at  the  window  watch- 
ing the  smouldering  ruins. 

"I  guess  we'll  go,  now  Nell,"  mumbled  Bill. 

Joan  held  his  hand  and  Nell's,  trying  to  speak  to  them 
as  they  departed,  but  had  to  let  them  go  with  only  the 
assurance  in  her  eyes  of  what  the  lump  in  her  throat 
would  not  let  her  say. 

"I  suppose  there  won't  be  any  trial,"  Jerry  remarked, 
as  he  continued  looking  out  of  the  window.  He  was 
thinking  of  what  Keating  might  have  tried  to  do  to  him 
in  court  on  the  morrow. 

"Trial!"  thought  Joan,  as  she  looked  at  Tom's  un- 
opened note. 


CHAPTER  XX 


OOD  newspapers  are  the  nation's  greatest  assets," 
continued  Jerry,  looking  from  the  ruins  of  the  mis- 
guided Record  to  the  News." 

Joan  did  not  reply.    Tom's  opened  note  absorbed  her. 

"Good  newspapers  have  unfortunately  had  to  sustain 
and  defend  the  bad  ones,"  Jerry  went  on.  "Vicious  prop- 
aganda and  sensational  journalism  have  masqueraded 
under  the  protecting  name  of  'the  Press,'  usurped  the 
prerogatives  of  'the  Press/  demanded  the  co-operation 
of  'the  Press/  abused  our  country's  fundamental  principle 
of  the  'Freedom  of  the  Press/  demoralized  our  people 
for  money  in  the  name  of  'the  Press/  and  the  tragedy  is 
that  they  have  been  tolerated,  shielded,  and  championed 
by  'the  Press'  as  one  of  the  family." 

Joan's  emotions  would  not  have  allowed  her  to  answer 
Jerry  now,  even  had  she  heard  him.  Tom's  pathetic  note 
pleaded  with  her  effectually  for  the  moment  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  all  else. 

"Bad  newspapers  haven't  had  the  benefit  of  criticism," 
Jerry  went  on  with  his  meditation.  "They  have  deprived 
themselves  of  it,  Joan." 

Joan  was  deaf  to  Jerry's  argumentation. 

"They  would  not  tolerate  it.  They  admitted  the  value 
of  criticism  by  practicing  it,  but  blindly  and  arrogantly 
resented  its  application  to  themselves.  As  a  consequence, 
while  various  other  human  instrumentalities  have  been 
kept  constantly  improving  through  the  aid  of  criticism, 
bad  newspapers  have  deliberately  kept  themselves  de- 
teriorating by  rejecting  criticism,  until  finally,  as  a  result 

289 


290  Unconventional  Joan 

of  having  proudly  put  themselves  above  it,  they  have 
sunk  so  far  below  the  point  where  they  could  be  helped  by 
it  that  their  absolute  abolition  is  now  demanded  by  a  pub- 
lic formerly  disposed  to  criticize  merely  but  now  de- 
termined to  condemn." 

Jerry's  typically  sober  words  competed  altogether  in- 
effectually in  Joan's  ears  with  Tom's  touching  tribute  to 
her  influence  over  him,  revealed  in  his  pleading  note. 

"I  am  giving  this  to  Bill  to  give  to  you,  Joan,"  Tom's 
note  began.  "I  have  no  idea  where  you  are.  I  would 
humbly  crawl  to  you  at  once,  on  my  knees,  if  I  did.  I 
think  Bill  probably  does  know  where  you  are.  He  has 
fought  me  away  from  the  truck  where  I  suspected  you 
lay  ill.  This  morning  the  truck  is  gone.  I  went  to  the 
loft  and  could  not  find  you.  I  thought  you  might  be  with 
Jerry  at  the  jail,  so  I  went  there." 

Joan  noted  that  Tom  modestly  avoided  saying  that  he 
had  secretly  supplied  Jerry's  bail. 

"I  have  just  returned,"  the  note  went  on,  "and  ventured 
to  ask  Bill  if  he  would  take  a  note  to  you  for  me.  He 
seems  less  harshly  disposed  towards  me  this  morning. 
This  is  the  second  note  that  I  have  had  to  entrust  for  de- 
livery to  you  within  the  last  thirty-six  hours.  The  other 
note  was  sent  to  you  after  I  had.  looked  everywhere  for 
you,  all  day  Tuesday  and  most  of  Tuesday  night.  I  went 
unsuccessfully  looking  for  you,  and  finally  sent  my  note 
to  you  by  the  newsboy  in  an  effort  to  reach  you,  to  tell 
you,  what  you  asked  me  to  make  you  happy  by  telling  you 
when  I  got  the  courage  to  do  it.  When  I  reached  home, 
Monday  night,  after  you  had  sold  me  a  newspaper,  your 
dear  photograph  spoke  to  me  from  my  table,  where  it  has 
always  stood  since  we  went  to  school  together,  and  told 


Unconventional  Joan  291 

me  that  it  was  you  who  sold  me  the  paper,  and  shamed 
me  into  resolving  to  do  what  you  have  so  often  pleaded 
with  me  to  do.  It  gave  me  the  courage  to  do  it." 

Remorseful  realization  of  the  successive  stages  of  her 
relationship  towards  Tom ! — Friendship — solicitude — 
sympathy — admiration!  Tom,  she  feared,  to  these  may 
have  hopefully  added  encouragement — even  though  she 
meant  merely  to  help  him  to  help  himself. 

"In  between  my  efforts  to  find  you,  on  Tuesday,"  the 
note  continued,  "I»discussed  and  arranged  with  my  as- 
sociates to  do  what  I  have  humbly  and  earnestly  tried  to 
start  to  do  in  my  paper  this  morning.  I  ask  you  to  be- 
lieve, Joan,  that  I  did  not  exactly  do  it  to — well,  bluntly, 
to  get  you,  but  I  did  do  it  on  account  of  you,  and  could 
never  have  done  it  except  for  you  although  I  admit  having 
failed  miserably  to  do  it,  and  that  I  did  all  sorts  of  shame- 
ful things  in  its  place  to  get  you,  being  eventually  shamed 
into  it  by  the  suffering  which  you  had  assumed  for  your 
crusade — which  suffering  I  could  not  endure — and  which 
crusade  you  have  compelled  me  by  your  example  to  as- 
sume thus  tardily  as  my  own." 

Joan  read  Tom's  mind  between  his  lines.  Side  by  side 
with  his  words  she  read  Jerry's  words: — "proof  of  love 
and  right  to  be  loved  is  based  on  sacrifice  alone." 

The  note  continued :  "Just  as  your  example  has  forced 
me  to  confess  to  the  public  the  wrongs  I  have  perpetrated 
against  them  in  the  name  of  what  you  call  'convention/ 
so  does  it  force  me  to  confess  to  you  abjectly  in  writing, 
as  I  will  confess  to  you  in  person,  if  you  will  let  me  see 
you,  the  wrongs  that  I  have  similarly  done  you  in  my 
uncontrollable  determination  to  have  you. 

"Everything  of  which  Keating  scorchingly  accused  me 


292  Unconventional  Joan 

in  your  presence  is  true — everything  up  to  his  accusation 
that  I  lured  you  to  my  home  by  my  note. 

"That  is  false. 

"I  sent  you  my  note  to  tell  you,  as  you  asked  me  to  tell 
you,  that  I  had  started  in  to  try  to  do  what  you  so  often 
had  pleaded  with  me  to  do.  I  sent  it  to  you  in  the  very 
midst  of  trying  to  carry  out  your  wishes.  I  did  not  ex- 
pect it  to  bring  you  to  my  home,  but  I  did  hope  that  it 
might  help  to  make  you  begin  to  believe  in  me." 

"Merciless  reprisal!"  painfully  realized  Joan.  "Bitter 
retribution!  Counter-stroke  of  compensation!  Fateful 
— perhaps  Providential — intervention !" 

Memories  of  her  fight  against  her  inclination  to  yield  to 
Tom  attacked  her.  Visions  of  her  forced  flight  into  his 
home  for  protection  harassed  her. 

"I  might  have  been  Tom's  now,"  she  admitted  to  her- 
self, "but  for  Keating's  malign  interception  of  his  note !" 

The  revelation  drained  her  heart  of  all  its  sympathy 
and  showered  it  woman-like,  upon  her  hapless,  misguided 
but  persevering  wooer. 

"Keating's  disclosure  to  you,"  wrote  Tom,  "was  liter- 
ally my  own  confession  intended  to  be  made  to  you,  ac- 
tually taken  out  of  my  mouth  before  I  could  utter  it  and 
used  by  him  to  accuse  and  condemn  me.  It  was  useless 
to  try  to  tell  you  this  while  he  was  in  the  act  of  condemn- 
ing me  before  you. 

"I  know,  of  course,  just  how  you  feel,  and  I  understand 
that  with  Jerry's  return  I  am  a  poor  second  in  the  race, 
but  if  ever  a  man  desperately  and  humbly  begged  to  be 
forgiven  and  pleaded  for  a  chance,  I  humbly  beg  you 
Joan  for  God's  sake  give  me  my  chance  to  prove  to  you 
that  I  have  finally  learned  the  full  truth  of  what  you  told 


Unconventional  Joan  293 

me — that  'the  proof  of  love  is  based  on  sacrifice  alone'." 

The  metamorphosis  of  Tom ! 

Tom  with  all  his  magnetic  aggressiveness  as  of  old, 
but  with  an  added  flavour  of  Jerry.  Irresistible  blend— 
and  she  had  not  thought  it  possible.  Tom  transformed ! 
Miracle  of  assimilation!  Mystery  of  woman's  influence 
over  man !  Harvest  of  love  nurtured  by  the  tears  of  self 
sacrifice ! 

"Jerry  was  right,"  she  realized.  "How  truly  the  Tom 
who  generously  released  Jerry  from  jail  instead  of  taking 
advantage  of  his  absence,  had  it  in  him  to  be  big,  and  how 
really  big  had  been  his  public  confession  of  self -conquest, 
made  for  me — a  love  of  sacrifice — meriting  love  in  return 
—deserving  richest  sympathy  for  its  tragic  frustration !" 

"This  is  a  great  day's  work  for  you,  Joan,"  Jerry 
turned  from  the  window  and  broke  in  upon  her  absorbing 
reverie. 

Tom's  note  fell  to  her  lap,  and  she  looked  up  at  him. 

Jerry  analytically,  as  usual,  continued: 

"You  have  scored  a  victory  over  your  arch  enemy, 
'convention,'  removed  Keating,  triumphed  over  the  vic- 
ious Press,  helped  the  hirelings  of  the  Press  to  be  true  to 
their  better  selves,  led  Tom  to  his  magnificent  triumph, 
and  enabled  me  to  make  my  own  little  contribution  to- 
wards your  successful  campaign." 

"I  have  done  absolutely  nothing  myself,"  Joan  pro- 
tested. "My  independent  efforts  were  foredoomed  to 
disaster — I  can  see  that  plainly  now.  I  have  proved  it  to 
be  madness  for  a  woman  to  try  to  function  as  a  man.  I 
have  done  nothing,  nothing,  but  look  on  and  weep!" 

"Yes,  that's  all  that  a  good  woman  ever  imagines  she 
is  doing,  because  she  never  comprehends  the  extent  of 


294  Unconventional  Joan 

her  silent  power — the  greatest  influence  in  the  universe 
next  to  the  omnipotence  of  God — by  which  she  actually 
inspires,  and  stimulates  and  directs  the  accomplishments 
of  men — in  the  very  way  that  you  have  been  responsible 
for  Tom's  efforts  and  mine,"  replied  didactic  Jerry.  "It 
was  never  intended  that  you  or  any  other  woman  should 
function  independently  and  aggressively  through  yourself 
alone,  and  I  will  not  question  your  contention  of  possible 
delusion  and  failure  in  that  respect,  but  you  cannot  deny, 
Joan,  that  you  have  all  along  been  guiding  Tom's  talents 
into  the  path  which  he  has  so  admirably  chosen.  And  as 
for  your  influence  over  me,  I  am  certain  that  you  must 
know  you  have  always  been  the  motive-power  behind  my 
poor  efforts.  Like  wireless  waves  to  my  mind  there  have 
flown  to  me  incessantly  from  your  mind  impulses  direct- 
ing not  only  my  actions  but  even  my  thoughts.  Ever 
since  I  read  in  Tom's  paper  that  every  human  being  is 
both  a  sending  and  a  receiving  radio-telephonic  instru- 
ment I  have  liked  to  compare  the  process  by  which  you 
controlled  me  to  wireless  transmission.  You  remember 
what  the  article  said  about  'minds  in  tune/  'mental  telep- 
athy/ 'intuition/  'instinct — '  " 

Joan  interrupted  him  under  the  influence  of  a  suspicion 
of  an  ingenious  explanation  of  her  misdirected  efforts. 

"But  you  didn't  keep  on  holding  my  mind  in  tune  with 
your  own,  Jerry.  That's  why  I  went  wrong!  I  didn't 
have  your  thoughts  to  guide  me  when  I  needed  them. 
You  suddenly  ceased  to — " 

"Of  course  I  couldn't  let  myself  think  of  you  in  the 
same  way  after  Tom — " 

He  broke  off — realizing  that  he  was  encroaching  upon 
another's  domain.  Similarly  he  had  broken  off  in  his 


Unconventional  Joan  295 

tremendous  effort  of  relinquishing  her  to  Tom — like 
breaking  the  circuit  of  magnetic  influence  by  which  a  ship 
is  helmed. 

But  in  his  mind  he  went  on,  discursively  as  ever,  as  if 
seriously  adding  to  the  curious  diary  of  his  dogmas  about 
women: — "Woman's  sensitive  soul  harkens  to  two  voices 
— the  inner,  spiritual  voice  of  conscience,  instinct — typi- 
fied in  Joan's  dream  by  the  spirit  of  Joan  of  Arc — and  the 
mortal  voice  of  her  beloved.  Both  voices  call  her,  in- 
cessantly. Wayward  the  woman  to  whom  either  voice  is 
missing — either  one.  Tormented  the  woman  to  whom 
the  two  voices  clash.  Happy  alone  the  woman  to  whom 
both  voices  harmonize.  Joan's  happiness  shall  not  de- 
teriorate into  torment  because  of  me!" 

His  jaw  tightened  rigidly  under  the  realization  that  he 
endangered  her  happiness,  and  sealed  his  lips  against 
any  further  reference  to  his  former  relations  with  her. 

And  in  her  mind,  too,  Joan's  thoughts  rushed  rapidly 
on  to  her  similarly  heroic  decision:  "Two  such  wonderful 
men!"  she  soliloquized.  "And  to  be  credited  by  men  of 
the  calibre  of  Jerry  and  Tom  with  the  merit  of  their  ac- 
complishments !  To  be  wanted  by  two  such  men !  Both 
of  them  have  done  such  marvellous  things !  Both  of  them 
have  made  such  terrific  sacrifices!  Both  of  them  have 
been  so  devoted,  for  so  long  a  time,  to  one  so  far  beneath 
them!" 

Her  sense  of  her  unworthiness  became  acute. 

She  decided  to  be  bluntly  frank. 

"Jerry,  no  matter  what  you  kindly  believe  I  may  have 
formerly  amounted  to  in  the  way  of  influence,  it  is  im- 
possible for  me  to  accept  credit  for  any  part  whatsoever 
in  what  either  you  or  Tom  have  just  done,  because  I 


296  Unconventional  Joan 

haven't  seen  you  for  two  long  weeks,  and  I  haven't  seen 
Tom,  except  once  or  twice,  for  a  moment,  during  the 
same  interval  of  time." 

Jerry's  eyes  revealed  a  great  awakening  in  his  mind. 

He  moved  across  to  where  Joan  sat  with  Tom's  letter 
in  her  lap. 

"Ting-a-ling,  Ting-a-ling,"  rang  the  telephone. 

Joan  picked  up  the  receiver  and  answered  the  call. 

Jerry  pondered  over  Joan's  disclosure. 

"Hello,"  answered  Joan. 

"Joan,"  replied  Tom's  voice. 

Jerry,  watching  her,  saw  her  turn  crimson. 

"Yes,  Tom." 

"Bill  has  just  told  me  he  delivered  my  note,  and  that 
you  were  up  in  the  loft.  May  I  come  up,  Joan,  please?" 

Tom's  sorrowful  voice  pleaded  earnestly  for  his 
chance. 

Joan  hesitated,  and  glanced  at  Jerry. 

"Certainly,  Tom,"  she  finally  replied,  and  added, 
"Jerry  is  here  and  we'll  have  *T — 4 — 3' — " 

Overpowering  memories  of  the  treasured  menu-card 
from  the  tea-shop,  on  which  Jerry  had  pencilled  the  little 
circle  and  the  two  dots — "contestants  at  the  post."  Over- 
whelming reminders  to  both  of  them  about  the  start  of 
the  race. 

"Tom  is  coming  up,"  she  said  to  Jerry. 

Ending  of  the  race! 

Jerry  despairingly  looked  at  her  with  the  eyes  that  had 
hopelessly  worshipped  her  on  their  "corner." 

Turning  point? 

Joan  dropped  her  gaze  from  him  to  Tom's  letter  in  her 
lap. 


Unconventional  Joan  297 

Heart-breaking  final  dash  for  the  post ! 

She  had  not  mentioned  the  note  to  Jerry.  It  seemed 
to  need  an  explanation.  She  said  simply: 

"I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  Tom  sent  me  this 
letter—" 

She  broke  off,  and  stopped. 

Jerry  understood. 

Tom's  proposal! 

The  Finish! 

Too  late! 

He  got  up  nervously,  and  walked  away  toward  the 
window,  trying  in  the  old  way  "to  get  away  from 
things,"  struggling  with  his  thoughts. 

The  conviction  that  destiny  is  an  irresistible  force 
dominated  him.  He  had  no  logical  resistance  to  oppose 
to  it.  He  could  not  sway  it  one  way  or  the  other,  but  he 
could  be  fair  to  Tom — he  must  be  fair  to  Tom.  He  was) 
born  to  lose — it  was  in  his  stars — he  knew  that — he  bad 
always  known  that — he  could  not  change  that — but  he 
could  be  fair — fair  to  Tom. 

Looking  out  of  the  window  he  saw  Tom  leaving  the 
News  building  on  his  way  to  the  loft. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  would  be  here — to  take  what  he 
had  won! 

He  pulled  himself  together  with  a  tremendous  effort, 
and  called  to  Joan.  "Here  comes  Tom." 

She  rose  and  stood  beside  him  at  the  window,  watching 
the  editor  of  the  News  crossing  the  street. 

Hundreds  of  grateful  and  admiring  eyes  saluted  him 
as  he  passed. 

"Tom's  triumphal  march — wonderful  Tom !"  breathed 
Jerry. 


298  Unconventional  Joan 

He  forced  himself  to  smile  and  look  at  Joan  as  he  said 
it. 

She  stood  with  bowed  head,  now  raising  her  misty  eyes 
to  his,  now  hiding  them  beneath  her  lids. 

Uncontrollably  agitated,  Jerry  abruptly  placed  his  hand 
beneath  her  chin  and  gently  tilted  back  her  head. 

"You  love  him,  Joan?"  he  half-sobbed  in  desperation. 

Joan  heavily  closed  her  eyes,  and  two  great  tears  rolled 
down  her  cheeks. 

Jerry  impetuously  clasped  her  little  body  in  his  arms 
and  passionately  kissed  her  on  her  aching  eyes — and  on 
her  lips. 

Audacious  Jerry!    The  first  aggressive  act  of  his  life! 

Gentle  Jerry  with  a  sudden  dash  of  Tom's  masterful 
aggressiveness. 

Deliberate,  retiring  Jerry — decisively  and  surprisingly 
quick  upon  occasion. 

Her  marvellous  ideal  at  last ! 

And  she  had  thought  it  impossible! 

Prodigy  of  woman's  power  to  mould  and  make  the 
man! 

The  door  opened. 

Tom  saw  them  in  each  other's  arms. 

Jerry  walked  over  to  his  old  friend,  steadied  him  with 
both  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  said: 

"Too  late,  Tom !    I've  taken  her." 

He  had  never  seemed  so  brave ! 

"You — should — have — done — it — long — ago,  Jerry," 
stammered  Tom. 

"Wonderful  Tom !"  marvelled  Jerry. 

They  went  over  and  sat  with  Joan  between  them,  an 
arm  apiece  around  her,  and  tried  to  stem  her  tears. 


Unconventional  Joan  299 

ii 

"Ting-a-ling,  Ting-a-ling"  sounded  the  telephone  again. 

Tom  reached  for  the  telephone  receiver  and  listened. 

"It's  the  City  Asylum,"  he  said.  "One  of  the  'trusties' 
out  there  who  heard  Jerry's  wireless  telephone  message 
says  he  wants  to  speak  to  Joan." 

"Hello  ?"  sobbed  Joan  into  the  transmitter. 

"Is  this  Miss  Joan?"  came  a  familiar  voice. 

"Yes,  this  is  Joan/' 

"This  is  Larry." 

Joan  gasped. 

"It's  poor  Larry!"  she  whispered  to  Jerry  and  Tom. 

"Yes,  Larry — "  she  spoke  into  the  phone. 

"Sometimes  fools  are  prophets,  Miss  Joan,  and  so  I 
thought  it  would  be  timely  to  suggest  that  we  would  do 
well  now  to  sell  out  our  monopoly  of  the  air  to  our  windy 
politicians  before  they  try  to  make  us  believe  they  always 
owned  it  by  Divine  Right — " 

Joan  silently  and  sadly  hung  up  the  receiver  and  handed 
the  telephone  back  to  Tom. 

Heartbroken  Tom  kept  looking  longingly  into  Joan's 
tenderly  pitying  eyes  as  he  mechanically  took  the  in- 
strument from  her,  and,  in  placing  it  back  upon  Jerry's 
work-table  inadvertently  touched  one  of  the  little  electric 
switches  connecting  the  aerials  with  the  big  amplifier, 
which  inauspiciously  spoke  with  the  sorrowful  voice  of 
the  sad  singer  from  afar  and  disappointingly  reminded 
him,  that 

"Memory  is  the  only  friend 
That  Grief  can  call  its  own." 


30O  Unconventional  Joan 


in 


A  little  later  there  was  "T — 4 — 2,"  with  the  knife  be- 
side the  spoon. 

The  little  mother  of  the  tea-shop,  mother-like — through 
many  sorrows — come  into  her  own. 


Patiently,  persistently,  even  if  need  be  militantly  and 
sorrowfully,  may  all  of  our  good  women  come  quickly 
into  their  natural  right  of  mothering  the  world  for  the 
restraint  of  what  erratically  ails  it. 


THE  END 


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